


Coming Back to Life

by DasMervin, MrsHyde (DasMervin)



Series: The Writing on the Wall [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Accepting Sam, Accidents, Alternate Universe, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Anger born of worry, Awesome Bobby, Awesome Sam, Blow Jobs, Bobby is an awesome dad, Bottom Castiel, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Comfort Sex, Crying After Sex, Crying During Sex, Cuddling, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cute, Cute Castiel, Cute Dean, Dating, Dean Got Over It, Dean is an Idiot, Dean is not in a good place, Declarations Of Love, Destiel - Freeform, Dying Castiel, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Dean, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotions, Endverse issues, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family, Family Feels, Feels, Finally, Gentle Sex, Headcanon, Healing, Heartbeats, Heavy Angst, Homophobic Language, Hospitalization, Human Castiel, Hurt Castiel, Hurt No Comfort, I Love You, If it's you it's okay, Internalized Homophobia, Kissing, Lube, M/M, Making Love, Making Out, Men Crying, Mental Anguish, Missionary Position, Near Death, No Condom, Oral Sex, Panicking Dean, Post-Coital Cuddling, Recovery, Relief, Rimming, Romance, Sam is an awesome brother, Scared Dean, Scars, Serious Injuries, Shocked Dean, Simultaneous Orgasm, Slash, Slow Sex, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Top Dean, and he won't let Sam help him, backsliding, but he was terrified, heart to heart, vengeful spirit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-12
Updated: 2013-11-19
Packaged: 2018-01-01 06:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 46,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1041215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/DasMervin, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DasMervin/pseuds/MrsHyde
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been twelve long years since Cas became human and he and Dean embarked on their long and difficult relationship.  And after all that time, it’s only when faced with losing him forever that Dean fully realizes what he means to him.  The finale of the Writing on the Wall verse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Burned and Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A routine hunt goes sour, leaving Cas near death and Dean on the brink.

_October 25, 2024_

_Hmm. This looks like a good one._

Sam scrolled through the latest article on the house down in eastern Tennessee. He’d be on his laptop that afternoon, doing one of their standard searches. Words like “mysterious” and “freak” and phrases like “police baffled” and “no explanation” were always good key words to look for their kind of case.

This search had turned up two of those buzzwords—“freak” and “no explanation.” A bizarre death that was tentatively being labeled as a suicide had been reported two days ago in Gatlinburg. They were only calling it a suicide, though, because it was the old “locked room mystery” type of death with no evidence of foul play whatsoever—despite the fact that the guy’s throat had been cut. Not your typical way to end it all. That alone wouldn’t be enough to make Sam think it was a case, though; some people were just that determined.

No, where things started getting a bit weird was the fact that the bloodstained knife used to do it had no fingerprints on it. Also, the corpse was oddly colored, very red on the extremities, and his skin was peeling and his hair was falling out—which had not been the case a mere few days prior to his death, according to witnesses.

The man had been single, but had a wide circle of friends, no enemies, a well-paying job that he seemed to enjoy, was healthy and active, close to his family—there was no reason he should have killed himself. Digging a little deeper, Sam had been going through online newspaper archive and found that this was not the first death in the house that he lived in. It was an old one, dating back past the 1850s when the town was founded, and it had a particularly violent history. Murders, suicides, a drowning in a nearby pond—not a very happy house. Throw all that in with the fact that the town was sitting on what were originally Indian lands, and, well, you had a situation ripe for a violent ghost.

The fact that there had been another death in the house just a few months before—the house had been up for sale after the previous owner tumbled down the stairs and broken her neck—just sealed the deal for Sam. There were enough mysterious deaths, violent history, and creepy coincidences that it was setting off all his hunter alarm-bells. It was definitely worth checking out, at the very least.

But he wasn’t going to be the one to do it.

Sam’s mouth twisted a little as he scribbled down a few notes on the pad next to him before clicking and saving. They just…they just really needed to at least try to get back to normal. If there could be a normal after—after what had happened to Cas.

* * *

_Six months previous…_

They’d been hanging at Bobby’s place when one of their standard case-searches had turned up what looked to be a violent haunting in New England. A history of deaths associated with a Colonial-era house up in Vermont, all targeting men, and for the last one, the bereaved family had said that the dead man had been talking about being followed by a spectral woman.

That was right up their alley. More to the point, it was right up _Cas’s_ alley. Despite the fact that Cas wasn’t nearly as fast or strong or as good a fighter as he or Dean, he was still incredibly useful to have as backup. He might have been unplugged from the angelic mainframe, but he still wasn’t entirely human. He knew a ridiculous amount of monster stats, yes, but even more handy, he could still see ghosts and reapers and the like, and in some situations could actually communicate with them or hit them with a little Enochian mojo. Having him around on haunting cases made their job ridiculously easy most of the time.

So, since they were right there at Bobby’s anyway, they’d asked Cas if he wanted to come along. Well, _Sam_ asked—Dean just informed him that he _would_ be joining them. But Cas had been fine with it—he was always fine with whatever crap Dean slung at him—and the next day the three of them shipped out to Vermont.

Sam never could help but feel a little odd when it was the three of them out on a hunt. Not that he minded Cas—the three of them had gone through some serious shit together (not much beat the End of the World as We Know It—twice—for stressful situations), and you couldn’t help but bond with somebody over that. Sam and Dean were partners, but Cas was an honorary Winchester as much as Bobby was. So no, Cas wasn’t intruding—but Sam always had a little niggling feeling that _he_ was.

He wasn’t stupid (that would be Dean). He was well aware that any time Cas subbed for Sam on a hunt and it was just him and Dean, the two of them…took advantage of the time away. Over the years of his observation of their incredibly screwed-up little relationship, Sam had more or less figured out that Dean and Cas didn’t get up to _too_ much when they were under the same roof as Sam and Bobby. Oh, that’s not to say that nothing at all went on behind Cas’s closed door—Sam had most unfortunately been privy to the evidence of _that_ on more than one occasion—but they seemed to keep things low-key. Which had to be frustrating for his horndog of a brother. So it wasn’t really any surprise that the first time the two of them went on a hunt alone, they’d stretched it out for an extra day afterwards so they could…do whatever they wanted to do.

It wasn’t something Sam particularly wanted to contemplate, but there it was. And now, some seven-odd years later after the first time the two of them had ever gone on a hunt alone, it was a sorta-regular thing for them. If Sam was down with something, if they needed to split up to send someone a little more competent with Bobby, or if he and Dean were just pissed off at each other and wanted a little time apart, then Dean would take Cas off on their next case, and then they would take a day or two extra vacation just for themselves. In fact, it was so sorta-regular these days that Dean would start getting really pissy if he hadn’t had a little private time with Cas in a while; for the past few years Sam had even started going out of his way to engineer an excuse to stay with Bobby now and again, just so Dean and Cas could go have one of their little dates (in fact, Sam’s original invitation for Cas to come on this hunt was actually a hint that they should do just that, but Dean had been too stupid to pick up on it).

As a result, any time it was all three of them on a hunt, while it was a familiar situation going way back—even further than Dean and Cas’s dates did—these days Sam felt vaguely like the third wheel. Cas and Dean never seemed to think so; they didn’t mind his presence and never acted like they wished he wasn’t there. Honestly, Sam wouldn’t care if they wanted to get their own room—frankly, he would probably appreciate it—but there was no way in hell he would say as much to Dean, and there was even less chance that he would actually take him up on it (more than likely he’d just punch him). So Sam would always just end up going about his usual routine of treating them both like he always did: calling shotgun before Cas could, drawing straws to see which one of them would be sleeping on the couch in their shared room, rolling his eyes at Dean’s sorry excuses for humor, defending Cas when Dean picked on him for his plethora of weird behaviors, and completely ignoring the fact that the two of them happened to be having sex with each other.

He wondered if there was anyone else out there who had to put up such a ludicrous pretense.

In any case, three of them made their ways way up into northern Vermont, barely thirty miles from the Canadian border. It was pretty dead up there; the possible haunted house was buried way back in the trees in the middle of an unpopulated area. Despite being a tiny little postage stamp of a state, Vermont was seriously empty. It wasn’t like the wide-open spaces of the western states that he and Dean usually favored, but empty more in a close, woodsy, creepy Washington Irving kind of way. Sam was just glad that they were near the decent-sized city of St. Albans and didn’t have to camp out in the woods or something (doubly so because the one time they had had to do just that with Cas on a hunt, Cas had wandered off in the bushes and gotten poison oak and refused to go outdoors for a month afterwards).

They decided to get a motel first before starting in on their usual investigation. Since they were already in town, they just started there. They put on their suits and got out their badges and started making the rounds; Sam took Cas up to the St. Albans police station and the morgue while Dean went door-to-door asking questions from family or possible witnesses and such. He and Cas hadn’t turned up too much; the guy had had been impaled by the rusting head of an old shovel, and that had been that. They hadn’t seen any evidence of foul play, and the cops said that the old barn where it had happened had been full of old unused tools like this and were ruling it an accident.

They met back up at City Hall around noon; Dean had had a somewhat more productive morning, as it turned out. The guy’s family was staying in St. Albans with relatives, and Dean had questioned his widow about it. She had plenty to say and told them about how the old barn on their property always felt so cold and made her so nervous, and how her two kids sometimes claimed to see a shape walking through around out there, and how just before her husband had died, he said he’d seen the same.

“I don’t know about you, but that sounds like a ghost,” Dean said unnecessarily, with the air of one imparting great wisdom.

“Yeah, Dean,” Sam agreed flatly. “Did any of them say what it looked like?”

“No.” Dean sounded disgruntled. “So that just means we have to research the house.”

They’d gone to a local diner for lunch—they couldn’t very well interrupt Dean’s ritual hamburger-sampling in a new town, now could they?—before hitting City Hall and the library to do a little digging in the archives. It didn’t take them long to find out that there were a lot of deaths associated with the old Merrill place, as it was known. But their reading seemed to indicate that most happened not in the house, but in the barn at the back of the property—the same place where this latest death had been. They’d read up on all the violent deaths they could find and it turned out that there was no particular MO. The deaths just seemed to happen with whatever was handy, and there was no pattern other than that the victims were all men older than twenty.

They kept going back through the archives until Dean lit on one outlier in the bunch, which happened to be the first recorded incident that involved the house. Only it wasn’t a death, but a disappearance—and this one was a woman. Gertrude Peters, the oldest daughter of the original owner, vanished in 1772. And when he heard that name, Cas had suddenly chimed in; while they’d been going through official records, they’d turned Cas loose in the old local newspapers. Being as eagle-eyed and meticulous as he was, he’d remembered reading a small engagement announcement dated 1771 for Gertrude Peters to a man named Francis Allen…and a year or so later found his wedding announcement, but to another woman.

It wasn’t quite enough to go on, but it was definitely a start. They’d driven east towards Fairfield Pond, where the old homestead was. The house was empty, so it was an easy matter to jimmy the lock and slip into the house for a look around. They hadn’t found anything; the house was clean, not a trace of EMF that they’d found, and their walking ghost detector had said he couldn’t see anything, but that he could _feel_ something. Not a ghost—not in the house, anyway—but…well, Cas could never really describe it, so Sam really couldn’t either, beyond the fact that he felt like there was some sort of spiritual disturbance nearby.

Well, since they at least had an idea of what they were dealing with, if not who, they’d gone back out to the car and pulled around the back to the barn, and when they got out, they loaded up with salt-filled shotguns and lighter fluid before heading in.

The sun had just set, the shadows from the trees melting into the ground as they’d approached the empty shell of the old barn. It wasn’t in use anymore, the timbers rotting, but it had been built sturdy enough that it still stood tall, looming two stories over them. And the minute Dean reached out and opened the door with a hideous creak, Cas said, “It’s here.”

Sam was on point immediately, strafing the floor with his gun. Dean immediately started canvassing the area with his EMF detector, and Sam could already hear it going haywire. “You see anything, Cas?” he called.

“It’s everywhere in this building,” he answered. “But I think it— _Dean, look out!_ ”

Only the reflexes ingrained from a life of hunting had saved him; Dean had leapt to the side in and instant, and so the rusting pitchfork tines had buried themselves in the floor where he had been standing and not in his head.

And they all three looked up in shock…to see the few rotted timbers of the loft ceiling doing nothing to hide the battery of ancient farming tools swinging threateningly from the rafters and the hooks on the walls above their heads.

“Oh, _shit_.”

Leave it to Dean to put it so succinctly. They were all backed up against the barn walls in a heartbeat, watching the skies with slightly panicky expressions.

“We gotta get out of here,” Sam said firmly.

“We can’t, Sam, there’s a fucking ghost in here killing people—we gotta find it!”

“Well, then we need cover!” he said over the sound of an ominous creak from above.

“The root cellar,” Cas said abruptly, pointing towards the back of the barn, where they could see a shadowy opening in the floor. “The ceiling is still sturdy—and I think that might be where it is,” he added, squinting at it.

“Right,” said Dean, looking all around. “On three, we gotta run for it, okay?”

Sam and Cas nodded, tensing at Dean’s whispered count, only to break into a run at his shouted, “ _Three!_ ”

They all dashed towards the back, their feet pounding against the creaking wood, and Sam heard a dull _thunk_ and dared a look back over his shoulder to see an ancient scythe quivering where it was stuck in the floorboards behind them. Dean was in the lead, but he skidded to a halt by the open cellar. “Come on, move!” he yelled, gesturing Sam and Cas in first, making wide sweeps with his shotgun. They clattered down the stairs, and Dean leapt down after them with a curse as a heavy shovel clattered down nearly on top of him.

They all backed against the walls, the only sound their rapid breathing and the occasional creak of the barn above them.

“Is it gone?” Dean stage-whispered after a moment.

“No.” That was Cas. “There is something down here, keeping it—her—anchored.” His eyes were darting around the cellar from where he stood. It was empty, though, and musty and dark. Sam hauled out his flashlight while Dean drew out his EMF meter and started scanning along the walls; it kept buzzing like it had up top, but when he hit the back wall, it spiked and stayed there.

“Yahtzee,” he called.

Sam and Cas both hustled over to where he was standing and sweeping the EMF meter back and forth over the middle of the back wall. It was dark, and looked just as ancient as everything else did down here, so there was no visible evidence of anything, but there was a definite chill, their breath fogging in the beam of Sam’s flashlight.

Cas pushed forward and put his hands out, touching the wall with the tips of his fingers. “There’s something behind this wall,” he said.

And then they all jumped at a sudden, loud, splintering whump above their heads, and they looked up—to see what looked like a heavy, rusting plow blade halfway through the barn floor.

“Son of a bitch…” Dean looked at Sam and Cas, and then said, “Here,” and shoved his shotgun into Cas’s hands before skittering around the edge of the cellar towards the stairs.

“Dean, what are you doing?” Sam demanded.

“Hang on!” he called, and then he lunged up and out, only to dart back in, barely missing a hail of timbers raining down on him, only he was holding the old shovel that had almost brained him earlier. He sprinted back to where Sam and Cas were. “We gotta get to whatever is behind there!” he said, and he raised the shovel high and slammed it into the slate of the wall behind them.

“Cover me!” he yelled over the crash of another falling object landing on the roof over their heads, and he kept furiously hammering the blade against the rock wall. Cas and Sam moved to flank him, their shotguns at the ready.

“She’s closing on us, Sam,” Cas said urgently.

“Where—can you see her?”

“Not exactly—but her presence is getting stronger,” he said, his voice low but even.

Sam looked all around, frustrated. “Can’t you tell where to aim, or something?!” he demanded.

“No—and even if I could, the salt won’t do any good if she doesn’t manifest herself,” Cas said flatly.

Sam saw a wisp of something in the far corner and whirled on it, unloading rock salt into it with a _WHAM_ of his shotgun, but his only answer was a hail of debris as something large and metallic clanged down right above his head.

“Well, don’t just piss it off!” Dean panted as he hammered against the cracking wall behind them. “Why don’t you—”

And then his words were cut off with a choking yell, and Sam whirled around only to get bowled over as Dean went flying through the air, knocking him down as he sailed across the cellar to slam against the far wall with a thud and a grunt of pain.

“Dean!” Sam yelled as Dean tried to get up—but fell back down as he started grappling furiously with an invisible force around his neck, clawing wildly at the empty space at his collar even as he gasped for air.

Sam scrambled to his feet, shouting, “Dean, hang on!” when suddenly, there was Cas, standing in front of him with one hand outstretched, and he was barking out low, unfamiliar syllables— _Enochian_ —and there was an audible snap and a whiff of ozone and an awful, echoing, inhuman screech of fury, and then Dean was let go, falling back on the ground to gasp for air.

Cas dropped his arm and swiftly crossed the floor to kneel next to him, and Sam forced himself to turn around, to leave Dean to Cas and instead to pick up the shovel where Dean dropped it and start trying to pry back the wall again. “Did you kill her?” Sam heard Dean demand, wheezing.

“No—I just made her let go,” Cas said. “And when she comes back, she will probably be very angry.”

“Oh, you mean like she wasn’t before?!” Dean hollered just as Sam’s shovel shattered a stone and the blade sank into an empty space behind it.

But his shout was all but lost under the thundering on the ceiling above their heads, of cracking wood and falling debris and all the blades slicing through the barn floor trying to get to them, and they could hear her _laughing_ , and Dean let out a yell and started firing wildly at the ceiling, trying anything to make her stop. But Sam didn’t, didn’t stop knocking away the stones, opening up the gap behind them, not even when Cas called out a warning and he saw her, saw her appear standing next to him, her green dress and long dark hair immaculate, but her eyes insane and face chalk-white and her neck red from where the noose around it cut into her flesh. But he still didn’t stop, didn’t flinch at the boom of a shotgun and the sting of rock salt that sprayed wide and hit him along with her.

But he _did_ stop when he heard the two strangled shouts and loud thumps behind him, and he whirled to find Cas and Dean both pinned high up against the wall, flailing wildly, clawing at their throats, only Dean managed to rasp, “Don’t stop—get her, Sam!”

Gritting his teeth, he hauled back the shovel and slammed it against the wall with everything he had, and finally, finally, the stones crumbled, and there was the huddled skeleton in tattered rags with the rotting noose still around its neck, and Sam fumbled for the salt and the lighter fluid in his pockets, dousing her with both, and just as he felt an implacable, icy force seize him by the throat, he flicked his lighter and threw it into the space.

An enraged scream split the air as the skeleton went up in flames, and then it was abruptly cut off, and Dean and Cas were dropped with identical thuds on the ground.

The cellar was filled with just the sounds of their rapid breathing, before Sam asked, “Everybody okay?”

“Yeah,” Dean grunted, rising to his feet and dusting bits of wood out of his hair. Cas had gotten up too, but he didn’t answer; he was frowning, his eyebrows drawn tightly together. “Nice job, Sammy,” Dean went on, backing up and taking a few steps up the stairwell and peering up at the rest of the barn, his face giving Sam a pretty accurate assessment of the damage up top.

“Thanks.” Sam picked up his flashlight from where he’d dropped it and peered back inside the space at the huddled bones, now blackened all over, and he spotted his slightly charred lighter and reached in after it.

He heard the sound of his lighter flicking shut, a tiny metallic click, but then his ears pricked as he heard something else, just the tiniest whisper, almost like a laugh, just as Cas suddenly said, “Something isn’t right—I don’t think— _SAM!_ ”

And the ceiling _exploded_. Sam had a split second’s impression of the top of the root cellar just flying to pieces, a hail of rusting blades and wickedly splintered wood filling the room like shrapnel, when suddenly two hands hit has back like pistons and he went flying forward, slamming down against the wall and onto the floor, the air driven out of him as a heavy weight thumped down on his back.

Then, silence. Just the rattling sound of tiny falling debris, and an odd, gasping sound behind him.

Sam raised his head, shaking it a little and releasing a cloud of dust into his eyes and he coughed, trying to get up, except he was buried under something. He looked up—only to see a dozen shards of the broken barn floor embedded into the very stones of the wall right behind where he had been standing.

There was a great deal of coughing from the other side of the room, the clatter of moving junk, and then a hoarse, frantic shout of “ _Sam?!_ ”

“I’m—” he coughed, “I’m okay, Dean, I—” He flopped around a little, trying to get out from under whatever was on him, and what _was_ that desperate, rasping wheezing, and that grunting, and he rolled half over, and Cas—Cas was—

_OH MY FUCKING GOD!_

_Cas_ was on top of him, _Cas_ who had pushed him out of the way— _Cas_ who had gotten hit by the rest of the wooden projectiles aimed at _Sam_ —

Cas who was lying there half on the floor and his back bristling with wooden stakes as he gasped and struggled to breathe.

“Oh _fuck_! _Dean!_ ” he yelled, frantically trying to get out from under him, scrambling to his knees.

“What? Sammy, what is it, what did she do to you?!” Dean was fighting his way down the stairs, over the rubble and through the dust.

“Not me, Dean— _Cas!_ Oh, _shit_ — _Dean, get over here!_ ”

“ _What?!_ What do you mean, Cas, what— _Jesus Christ!_ ” His voice spiraled up and cracked on the last word as Dean flung himself down on his knees next to Cas. “ _Jesus!_ ”

Cas was twitching helplessly, making that awful whistling noise as he fought to breathe, and Sam saw his panicked face as he looked up at him, his eyes wide and terrified, blood dripping from his lips onto the dusty floor, and he tried to move only to let out this horrible, thready sound of anguish.

“Jesus, Sammy— _Jesus!_ Oh, _fuck_ , Cas! Fuck, Sam, we— _fuck!_ ”

Words had deserted Dean; all he could do was swear, his voice high and shrieky with panic, his shaking hands hovering over Cas as he wanted to do something but couldn’t.

“We gotta get him out of here!” Sam yelled.

“We can’t—we can’t move him, Sammy, he’s—she fucking _stabbed him in the back_ , we can’t move him—”

“We _have_ to—we have to get him out of here and to the hospital! We’ve gotta pick him up, Dean, now _move_!” Sam rose up into a crouch and got his hands under Cas’s side and nodded at Dean to do the same. “On three, Dean, we lift him and we get him to the stairs. We try to keep his back flat, okay?”

“Right.” Dean’s eyes were huge, shocked holes in his face, his lips trembling as he stared at Cas, but he moved and got a hold of him

When Sam said, “Three,” he lifted. Sam saw that Dean almost dropped him, though, when Cas let out a noise of pure agony. “Come on, Dean, keep him up!” he yelled, and they started scrambling over the floor, fighting to get to the stairs, trying to keep Cas as still as possible, only they heard that laughing, that fucking bitch was still there, and she did this, and she was _laughing_.

“FUCK YOU, YOU _BITCH_!” Dean roared out at the laughing barn as they picked their ways across the splintered floor, hurrying as fast as they could before she decided to try again.

They ran to the car like an awkward four-legged race, holding Cas up between them, and Sam struggled to get his hand out to open the back before he grabbed Cas as gingerly as he could around the middle and said, “Get in, Dean—grab his feet in with you so you can hold him up!”

Dean shot inside, dragging Cas’s lower half with him. Cas had mercifully passed out, as Sam saw as he leaned down and managed to set him against the seat where he slumped forward against Dean. “Oh, _shit_ , Sam, he’s—” Dean started, his voice breaking.

Sam put his fingers on Cas’s neck, felt the low flutter of his pulse. “He’s alive, Dean, but we gotta get out of here—gimme the keys!”

His eyes red and wet, Dean had fumbled up to find Cas’s pulse himself, but he jumped at Sam’s shout and then was fighting into his pocket, cursing violently until he finally managed to get the keys out and tossed them to Sam; Sam slammed the door shut and flew forward and into the driver’s seat, cranking the engine hard enough to make her squeal as she rumbled to life

Throwing it in gear, Sam floored it, churning up the turf under the wheels as he bounced and jostled back to the driveway, sending dust and gravel spraying up behind them as he hit it and mashed the gas harder, yanking the wheel and careening out onto the main road and away from the house. He raced down the road, cursing these fucking narrow twisty new England roads because he couldn’t drive fast enough. Dean was shouting for him to go faster and he tried, only then he heard a horrible bubbling cough and a helpless, near animalistic cry from the back, all with that awful whistling breathing, and Dean’s voiced cracked, “Oh, _Jesus_ ,” and it was nearly a sob. “Cas, don’t you— _fucking drive, Sam!_ ” he suddenly bellowed, and just fuck these roads, Sam didn’t care, and he stomped the gas, and the Impala roared, and she just _flew_.

Only— _shit_ , not now, a goddamn black and white had just come sailing out of a turnoff, and he didn’t fucking need that, not _now_! Dean was yammering in the background, telling him to go faster, and Sam just said fuck the cops, he didn’t have time for that, and he kept going, some dim part of him blessing Dean for keeping the car in such tip-top shape. He was leaving them in the dust, and he tried to shout over Dean’s panicked yelling: “It’s only ten miles, Dean, I’m _driving_ —hang on, we’ll get him there!”

The lights of the town bursting through the trees had never been such a welcome sight, and Sam’s fingers tightened on the wheel as he was forced to slow down, but he didn’t stop and didn’t care that they were entering traffic. He just went racing through intersections, dodging buses and cars and pedestrians, ignoring the horns all around him and the sirens wailing in the background, going straight for the hospital in the middle of town, and finally, _finally_ flying into the Emergency Care entrance with a shriek of rubber on pavement.

He was already leaping out of the car barely after he’d wrenched the keys out, shouting for a stretcher, and he could hear Dean hollering for the same from the backseat. The EMTs milling around the area were no slouches and sprang into action immediately, bringing the stretcher around to the back of the car and pulling Dean away from Cas and out of the way. Sam grabbed him and dragged him aside; he needed to let them do their job. Dean hardly seemed to notice anything—not Sam or the blood all over him or anything else. His huge eyes were fixed on where they were pulling Cas’s limp body out of the back—Jesus, with all those huge chunks of wood sticking out of his back—the wood that would have hit _Sam_ —

The EMTs were already running him in when the howling siren that had been following them came right up behind them; he and Dean both took one look at the cops boiling out of the doors, one going for his gun, and Sam said, “Go on with Cas, Dean; I’ll take care of this.”

Dean was off the minute Sam let him go, and Sam forced his face into a neutral expression, raising his hands and walking a few steps toward the whirling blue lights.

“Evening, officers,” he called, raising his hands. “My name is Agent Sanders—I was here investigating the death of Jordan Ellis out east of town.” He gestured to his front while keeping his hands up. “Can I get my badge?”

The cop who’d drawn his gun had lowered it, and the driver was looking at him suspiciously, but nodded. Sam dropped his arms and reached into his coat pocket, pulling out his latest bogus ID that he’d been using on this job and flashing it to them. “We’ve been in town all day—I spoke to Police Chief Parks this morning. I’m sorry I couldn’t stop—one of my partners got caught in a collapsing barn, and I had to get him here.” He wasn’t doing a very good job of keeping the impatient worry out of his voice.

The older cop seemed to be about to speak, but Sam ran over him. “Look—I’m sorry, but I have to go—I have to get in there and check on him.”

“Well, all right,” the lead cop answered, but Sam barely heard him as he wheeled around and ran into the ER just in time to find Dean roaring at a hapless nurse to tell him what was going on.

“Dean!” Sam grabbed him by the shoulders and swung him around. “ _Calm down_ —let me handle this,” he said firmly.

Dean’s whole body was quivering, and he jerked sharply out of Sam’s grip, but then just tightly gripped his knees as he bent over, breathing deeply. Sam watched him warily for a moment, but then turned back to the nurse. “Sorry—my—that was our brother that just came in through here.” He forced his clenching gut to be still.

He wasn’t exactly trying to be charming, but he figured she must have been used to distressed people (or violently hysterical people, for that matter) and so didn’t seem upset and just crisply said, “Well, if you’re his brothers, I need some information from you.”

She started rapid-firing questions at him, asking if Cas had any allergies (nothing more than his usual case of the sniffles in the spring) or previous surgeries (just his broken wrist), if he had any medical conditions (hypochondria didn’t count), and what his blood type was (Sam didn’t know that one, but Dean sharply barked out that it was A-positive). She’d taken everything down on her clipboard and then, after directing him to pick up some paperwork at the main desk, went speeding away down the hall.

Dean was standing up now, facing out the window, one hand tight on the frame, and Sam could see his jaw was clenched. He didn’t try to talk to him, though; instead, he went over to the desk and got the necessary check-in forms and did their usual web of lies: putting Cas into the system as Castiel John Cunningham, using his real name along with that on the phony ID that he’d been carrying on his trip, claiming that he’d been injured in a gas explosion (because there was no way anyone would believe he could have been _staked_ like that from a collapsing roof), and making up most of the details elsewhere.

He looked back at his brother from time to time; Dean just stayed braced by the window, his back rigid, and Sam left him alone. He’d just turned the clipboard back in to the desk attendant when he was approached by another one of the ER nurses, a tiny little Asian woman who had to crane her neck to look at him.

“Are you the brother of—” she peered at her chart, “Casteel Cunningham?”

“Castiel—yeah, that’s us.”

Dean had whirled around at the sound of Cas’s name and came racing over, crowding next to Sam, gripping his arm to push him aside so he could face the nurse. “What is it—what do they say?” he demanded

“We have your brother stabilized, but now we’re taking him down to Radiology,” she said. Her voice, while gentle, was high-pitched and naturally perky, and horribly at odds with her next words. “He obviously has multiple serious puncture wounds, we’re pretty sure he has a pierced lung, and there is a possibility one of them hit his heart, but until we X-ray him we won’t know how extensive the internal damage is.”

Sam stared, trying to process everything, Dean’s fingers clamping painfully tight on his arm. She gave them a kind look, and said, “Once we know the extent of the damage, we’ll take him into surgery to remove the wood.”

Silence. And then, “What—that’s it?” Dean was straining forward, and Sam locked his arm in front of him reflex.

The nurse was sympathetic, but only said, “That’s all we know until we can get the X-rays, sir. Once we do, Dr. Steinbrenner can decide what needs to be done, and then we can operate.”

She didn’t wait for them to answer, even though Dean was obviously opening his mouth to say something, and she turned around and hurried away, her ponytail swinging behind her.

Sam’s arm throbbed as blood flow was suddenly restored; Dean had let him go and whirled back around to go stand by the window again, his shoulders taut.

“Dean?”

He didn’t answer, but Sam knew he heard him as he walked up behind him. “Dean, come on—come over here and sit down.” Sam’s grip was firm, and even though Dean was hard and tense beneath his hand, he let himself be led to a chair; he sat down, stiff-legged, and wouldn’t look at him. “I’m gonna go out and move the car—I’ll be right back,” Sam said to the top of his head. “You stay here and don’t yell at the nurses.”

Still no response, but the fact that he didn’t refuse to follow Sam’s direction was about the best he could get. He left him there and dashed outside, jumping in the car and pulling it out of the way, finding a spot in the nearby lot. On his way back in, he popped the trunk and got out both their overnight bags before loping back into the ER.

Dean was right where he left him, his arms resting on his knees, his bloody hands dangling between them, his head bowed. “Hey, Dean?” Sam grabbed his shoulder and forced him to look up. “Here—here’s your stuff. The bathroom’s right over there—go get changed and cleaned up, okay?”

Dean looked down; he was tacky with drying blood on his front where he’d been holding Cas up and on his hands and arms where he’d bled. “Yeah,” he finally said, and he grabbed his bag and got up, heading for the bathroom.

Sam watched him go for a moment before digging into his pocket for his phone. It was already 7:30, but it was still light out, the days getting longer and longer. He only had a moment to reflect on his brain focusing on pointless details like that right now before the ringing in his ear stopped and a gruff voice answered, “Yeah?”

“Bobby? It’s Sam. There—we had an accident. It’s Cas.”

A brief silence, and then, “What happened?”

“The ghost we were hunting brought the roof down on us—Cas took the worst of it. He’s—we’re at the hospital. They’re prepping him for surgery.”

“Is he gonna be okay?” Bobby demanded.

“I…don’t know.” God, saying it like that sounded so horrible. “He’s…Bobby, he’s torn up pretty bad.”

“You still in St. Albans?”

Sam replied, “Yeah, the uh, Northwestern Medical Center.”

“I’m on my way.” Bobby’s voice was grim. “You call me if anything happens.” And then he hung up, and Sam could only put his phone away and wait for something to happen.

Dean came back out of the bathroom in short order, cleaned up and wearing new clothes, but he was still pale and twitchy. Sam almost wished he’d stayed in there a little longer, because looking down the hall, he saw a doctor being pointed in their direction by the tiny Asian nurse, and he was quickly striding in their direction with a serious expression on his face. From the looks of him, he didn’t have anything good to say, and some small part of Sam wanted to spare his brother that—but he knew that denying him any information would be just cruel.

The doctor came to stand in front of them; he was about their age, although noticeably shorter and softer. Dean hadn’t noticed his arrival immediately, as he was looking at his hands again, but when Sam stood up, Dean bounced up on his feet too.

“Sam and Dean Cunningham?” the doctor asked. At their nods, he said, “I’m Dr. Steinbrenner.”

“How is he?” Dean demanded immediately.

Steinbrenner’s face was carefully neutral as he spoke. “Your brother has a total of nine splinters of varying size embedded in his back; the four largest punctured his right lung, which has mostly collapsed. Two others pierced his liver, and one is in his right kidney. His shoulder blade has been shattered, he has four cracked ribs and two are broken outright, and there is very serious internal bleeding.”

Sam felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He knew it had looked bad, but hearing it all laid out like that, knowing just how bad it really was—and realizing again that Cas hadn’t just pushed him out of the way, he’d _taken_ the hit that had been about to _kill_ him, and now he was—

Steinbrenner was still talking. “Fortunately, there was no damage to his heart, spinal cord, or any other major organs,” he said, and Sam was not at all comforted by the information, particularly when he said after it, “But even then, he is in critical condition and we are going to have to operate immediately to remove the splinters, repair the damaged organs, and try to stop the bleeding.”

Sam couldn’t look at his brother, but he could hear that he was breathing in a rapid, nasally way that Sam didn’t like. Sam forced himself to ask, “What are his—what is your prognosis?”

“It’s too early to say,” Steinbrenner said. “Removal of debris can at times cause additional damage, and we can’t know how severe the bleeding is or if we’ll be able to stop it until we operate. But we need to get your brother into surgery as soon as possible. He’s being prepped right now; I’ll need the two of you to sign the consent forms,” he said, holding out his clipboard. Sam took it and scrawled his fake name on it, and Dean yanked it out his grasp to shakily sign it as well.

“Also, he’s lost a lot of blood, and is still losing it—since you’re his brothers, it would be ideal if you could donate, if your blood-types are compatible,” Steinbrenner said as he took back the clipboard.

“What—oh, yeah, yes, of course we will,” Sam managed; another time he might have been amused about Cas being A-positive like they were, making it easier to maintain the deception that they were related, but this was not another time, and right now all he cared about was keeping Cas alive.

“Both of us—as much as you need,” Dean said roughly.

“Excellent. I’ll have a nurse come collect you for the donation. I have to go get prepped for surgery.” Steinbrenner’s voice was soft. “Would you like to see your brother before we operate?”

Sam’s shoulders went taut; the heavy note of finality was clear behind the careful words.

“No.” Dean’s voice was rough. “You get him in there and fix him. We’ll see him afterwards.”

“All right. We’re estimating six to seven hours in surgery.” Steinbrenner’s detached, professionalism cracked a little, to let a little emotion through—it was clearly a deliberate move on his part, but it didn’t mean he was faking it. “We’ll do everything we can for him,” he said sincerely, “and hopefully I’ll see you afterwards when it’s complete and your brother is in recovery.”

And then he left, hurrying back down the hall, and leaving the two of them standing there. Sam swallowed and looked at the floor for a minute, before looking back up and over at Dean.

His brother’s face was ghostly white as he rubbed his hand over his mouth, staring off into space; Sam had seen him like that before, back in times when Sam had been badly hurt (or when he came back after being killed, and he would _never_ get over the fact that he could say that about himself). Licking his lips, Sam started, “Dean, he’ll be okay—”

“No _shit_ he’ll be okay,” Dean barked, abruptly spinning on his heel to go back and stand by the window, his back to Sam. “‘Hopefully’ my ass—they’ll patch Cas up and he’ll be fucking _fine_.”

Sam just looked at him; after a few false starts, after trying to say something, he realized that there wasn’t really anything he _could_ say.

So he just sat down on one of the uncomfortable chairs to wait.

* * *

It was a very long, tense eight hours. Given their line of work, field medicine wasn’t always sufficient, so Sam had spent his share of time in hospitals waiting for news—usually on Dean. There was a brief break when the little Asian nurse—Beth, Sam found out her name was—came to take them off to a room to get a pint of blood from both of them (Dean told her to take another from him if they needed it), but then it was right back out into the lobby for more _waiting_.

Familiarity with the situation did not make it any more bearable. Sam had dutifully called Bobby right after Dr. Steinbrenner had left to give him the low-down. He’d been on the road, already in Minnesota. “Never does anything halfway, does he?” he said darkly, to which Sam could only agree. Bobby ordered him to call him back when Cas was out, and said that he was just gonna keep driving until he couldn’t keep his eyes open, but that he’d be there as soon as he could.

Sam was glad he was coming—as much for Dean’s sake as anybody.

Sam cared about Cas—hell, he loved the little guy, and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it. True, there was no one he was closer to than Dean, but that was because they’d spent their whole lives together. But he’d known Cas for sixteen years, had been through everything short of literal hell with him; he was as close to him as could be to anyone who wasn’t Dean. Cas was _family_ —and he was in the operating room full so many wooden stakes that he looked like a pincushion. Because he’d taken the shot meant for Sam, saving his life and sacrificing himself just like family would.

None of their usual tricks for cheating death would work here. They couldn’t pray to angels and ask for a favor from one of them—Cas had killed so many of them and terrorized Heaven for so long it was pretty clear that they wouldn’t help out—because Cas dead was probably one of their goals. And of course God was so hands-off that He wasn’t likely to step in for this, even if he had before. And if they even considered another demon deal—and they _so weren’t_ —that was completely out of the question because Cas was still on Crowley’s Most Wanted list. They’d kept Cas a secret for this long, and they were were so not letting word of this get back to Hell now. And anyway, Cas wasn’t even human, not entirely, and didn’t even have a real soul as far as they knew, so he couldn’t think any other ways to get him out of this one. Cas was on his own, and Sam wasn’t too proud to admit that he was very worried for him.

But he could also look at things from a more objective standpoint, where it was clear that he had another big reason to worry. Cas was foremost on his mind—but there was also Dean. His stupid brother, who for all of his loudmouthed insensitivity and smug bravado was so freaking _fragile_ that one good emotional blow could send him into a complete nosedive. His mental and emotional stability were propped up solely on the tripod of Sam, Bobby, and Cas—and Cas might _die_.

It wasn’t arrogance on Sam’s part to say that he came first with Dean, because he did, and he knew it. Hell, back there when that spectral bitch had torn the barn floor down into the cellar and sent the deadly remnants flying in their direction, it had been Sam that Dean called out to first—and Sam would have done the same, had their positions been reversed. That’s just how they were, and how they always would be—sometimes Sam wondered if all those accusations of codependency might have some basis in truth.

But even if Cas did come second with Dean, it was a very close second—and he was _different_. Yeah, he was both friend and family to all of them, but he was also Dean’s…boyfriend, or partner, or lover, or whatever the hell you wanted to call him. The point was that he filled a role for Dean that Sam didn’t—and now he might lose him.

He didn’t know if Dean would be able to take it.

Dean didn’t talk, not for the whole long, awful wait. He just sat there and sucked on his flask like Sam hadn’t seen him do in years. Sam wished he could talk to him, wished he could get Dean to say something— _anything_ —because that’s just what Dean did, how he dealt with things. When he was worried, he just _talked_ , blathering about nothing or making stupid cracks or even just declaring that everything was going to be fine _so there_. Only…it was Cas he would have to talk about. And at this point, in this situation, Sam was pretty sure that anything either of them would say would be taboo under the Rules According to Dean.

But this time, Dean wouldn’t talk _at all_. Nothing—he just sat there, horribly quiet and unresponsive; his typical feigned jocularity had failed him. Sam wished Dean could get through his thick head once and for all that he didn’t _care_ , that if Dean wanted to _really_ talk about Cas, about how scared he was and how much he loved him and how much he needed him—all those things that Sam already _knew_ , for Christ’s sake—then Sam would listen. Hell, at this point, he’d even be happy to listen to Dean’s usual inappropriate jokes about the situation—anything to break him out of his disturbing silence

But Dean wouldn’t talk, and Sam couldn’t make him. They just sat there in oppressive silence, hour after hour, until they finally saw Dr. Steinbrenner coming down the hall.

Dean saw him first; he flew out of his chair and hurtled down the hallway, and the minute Sam realized what had happened, he was hot on his heels, both of them skidding to a halt in front of the doctor, who was still wearing his scrubs. “What happened?” Dean demanded. “How is he?”

Doctors could be hard to read, what with the fact that they were both trained to be sympathetic and yet were so desensitized to death, but if something had gone wrong, Sam would have been able to tell. “The surgery went well,” he said, his voice tired. “It took a bit longer than we were hoping, but we’ve removed all the debris and—”

“Where is he?”

Steinbrenner took Dean’s interruption in stride. “We’ve transferred him up to the ICU; these next twenty-four hours will be critical. He’s still bleeding—”

“What? _Still?_ Why didn’t you stop it?” Dean butted in again.

“Dean,” Sam muttered warningly, but was ignored.

“We repaired the damage as best we could; the internal bleeding has slowed, but not stopped, and we will have to keep him under tight observation for the next twenty-four hours. Hopefully the bleeding will stop, and that’ll give him some time to recover before his next surgery,” Steinbrenner said easily.

“ _Another_ surgery?” Dean said, outraged. “ _Again?_ What the hell were you doing in there?!”

“Dean, shut _up_!” Sam hissed, stepping in front of him and giving an apologetic look to the doctor.

Steinbrenner didn’t seem at all upset, though, and just patiently continued, “Yes—we removed the wood and repaired the internal damage, but he needs time to rest and recover before we start reconstructing the broken bones. We’ll give him a day to recuperate before we go back in.”

Sam could feel Dean trying to strain forward against him and kept him pushed firmly behind him. “Can we see him?” Sam asked.

Steinbrenner shook his head apologetically. “Not until the end of this first stint in the ICU. He’s not out of danger yet, and as I said, these next twenty-four hours are critical. There can be a chance of infection—possibly tetanus, since you said he hadn’t had a booster in so long—and we have to keep monitoring that bleeding. But you should have a chance to see him before we take him in for his next surgery.”

“But he will recover?” Sam persisted. “Is he gonna be all right?”

Steinbrenner pursed his mouth, which Sam did not like, and from the way he felt him stiffen, Dean liked it even less. “It’s still too early to say. He’s suffering from serious internal damage with hemorrhaging; at this point, all we can do is wait out the next twenty-four hours.”

Dean didn’t have anything to say to that, and Sam didn’t either. Steinbrenner gave them a sympathetic look. “It’s late—if you two want to go somewhere where you can sleep, or—”

“We’re not leaving him here,” Dean bit out, and this time Sam agreed with him.

“Well, then there’s a waiting area in the ICU,” he replied simply. “You’ll be notified if he takes a turn, but really all we can do his wait and hope for the best, God willing.”

Dean gave a very dark, bitter laugh, turning away and crossing the floor to go back to his window. Sam glanced after him but then back at the doctor and said, “Thank you—for everything.”

“That’s my job,” he said. “We’ll keep you notified about your brother’s progress.”

There were a few more exchanges of empty pleasantries before Steinbrenner left, and then Sam went over to the main desk to ask directions to the ICU. He collected his and Dean’s bags, and then Dean himself, and they wound through the hospital to their new post.

Once he was sure Dean was safely ensconced in a chair, Sam stepped out to see if he could find the cafeteria or a vending machine or something to get Dean some coffee, and so he could call Bobby. When Bobby picked up the phone he was already in Illinois; he was clearly driving like a madman. Sam gave him the all the details, and Bobby said that he was still going strong, hopped up on caffeine, and that he’d get there sometime tomorrow.

“You watch out for Dean,” he ordered. “He can’t be takin’ this well.”

“He’s not,” Sam said flatly. “But it’s not like there’s anything he’ll let me do about it.”

“I don’t care what he will and won’t let you do—you stay with him and watch out for him and try to keep him from beatin’ himself up over this. You know he will.”

Yeah, Sam did know. He tiredly promised that he’d do what he could, would be there for his brother as best he could manage, and Bobby told them to hang on—all three of them—until he got there.

* * *

They both stayed there, the whole day and into the night, just sitting in the ICU. A few hours into their stay, early in the morning around sunup, a couple of older women came in—hospital volunteers. They had a cart of coffee and drinks and snacks, and were very nice and sympathetic and Sam took them up on it, as well as their offer to get a couple of blankets and pillows for the two of them. Dean didn’t sleep, though, and didn’t want to eat anything. Instead, he just sat there and sucked down coffee laced with whatever he had in his flask.

Sam eventually made him eat a ham sandwich that he got from the hospital cafeteria around noon—if nothing else just to help keep him sober. Sam had tried to start a few idle conversations with him, but all he got were short, sarcastic rejoinders covering a steadfast refusal to accept any kind of comfort. Sam gave up eventually and just went back to waiting. He napped a little bit through the course of the day and he hoped Dean did too, but he was always awake when Sam was.

Sam wished they could go wait somewhere else; ICUs were horrible, and this one was no exception. It had just been them in the wee hours of the morning, but through the course of the day, groups of people came in to visit relatives who were in the ICU, and even worse, a panicky group who were clearly there after bringing in an injured family member…and who were told that he didn’t make it. Sam could only uncomfortably watch the floor as the room was filled with weeping, and wish he could do something—and pray to God or whatever that they didn’t get that kind of news about Cas.

Bobby finally showed up at the tail end of their 24-hour vigil around one in the morning—he must have driven like a bat out of hell to get here that fast. Sam had never been happier to see his grizzled gray head, even if he was red-eyed like a weasel and wired on caffeine.

“Any news?” he demanded before he’d even sat down.

Sam shook his head. “No, but we’re kinda operating on the old ‘no news is good news’ idea,” he said. “They just said that we’d have to wait it out, and they’d see how he was after the 24-hour period; they said we might be able to see him after that. They’re gonna send him back in for his second surgery then, though, if he’s okay.”

Bobby listened, but snorted at the end of Sam’s words. “‘Course he’ll be okay,” he grunted. “He’s a tough little bastard. He’ll pull through.”

“Yeah, he will,” Dean’s rough voice cut in. “And then I’m gonna go back after that fucking bitch that did this to him and send her right to hell where she belongs.”

Sam and Bobby exchanged glances, but Bobby just asked, “So what the hell happened back there, anyway? You boys have your thumbs up your butts or something, to get caught like that?”

Sam glared at him. “No—we’d burned her bones, and she vanished—but she wasn’t gone. We’d just let our guard down, ‘cause it looked like we got her—and then she brought down the cellar roof on us and tried to stake me with the splintered boards. And Cas—” Sam swallowed, “Cas pushed me out of the way—and got hit instead.”

Bobby made a small noise that might have been a laugh, but wasn’t quite. “Yeah, that brain-damaged kid would pull a stunt like that.”

“There’s gotta be something else, some other remains somewhere that we don’t know about,” Sam could only say. “But Dean’s right—we do have to do something about that ghost haunting that barn. She’s violent.”

“Don’t worry—we’ll get her,” Bobby said reassuringly. “But we’ll deal with that later. Right now, we just need to be here for Cas.”

Sam nodded, at both his spoken sentiment and the unvoiced “and for Dean” at the end.

It was just a few more hours after Bobby had arrived when Dr. Steinbrenner suddenly appeared. Bobby had dozed off in his chair, but when Dean shot to his feet at the sight of the doctor, Sam smacked him awake.

“How is he?” Dean demanded before Sam could even open his mouth.

Steinbrenner’s face was smooth and relaxed. “He’s doing about as well as we could have hoped for,” he told them. “He hasn’t worsened, and his bleeding has slowed down significantly, and his lung has mostly reinflated. We’ve given the okay for his next surgery; he’ll be prepped shortly.”

Sam felt the horrible cold knot that had been sitting in his stomach all day start to loosen. “So he’s gonna be okay?”

Steinbrenner’s mouth pursed. “We can’t say that for sure right now,” he said, and out of the corner of his eye, Sam saw Dean tense. “But the fact that he’s stable and not worsening is definitely a good sign. Right now, we need to get in there and reconstruct his bones; getting things back in place will relieve some of the pressure on his punctured lung and help it get back up to full capacity. We’re going to be prepping him for surgery in about fifteen minutes; I’ll have to ask you to only go in one at a time, but you can go see him.”

Dean’s head snapped around, and he looked at Sam and Bobby, clearly wanting to say something but he couldn’t bring himself to. Bobby could, though: “Well, go on, idjit,” he said, giving him a push in the middle of his back.

Sam saw Dean’s spine go rigid, and when he turned to look at Sam, his face was flushed but he looked so torn—and Sam just nodded him away.

Dean hesitated, his jaw clenching—and then he was gone, dashing to the ICU door and hammering incessantly on the buzzer until they let him in.

They all watched him go, and when Steinbrenner turned back to them, Sam felt slightly embarrassed for Dean’s sake, like he ought to cover for him or something. “He’s—ah, he’s the oldest. He always feels like anything that happens to us is his fault,” he said awkwardly.

Bobby made a rude noise. “Understatement,” he grunted, and then introduced himself to the doctor as their uncle. “That all you can give us on him, Doc?” he asked. “No predictions or prognoses or anything?”

Steinbrenner shook his head. “No, I’m afraid not—at this point, while he’s still bleeding and unconscious, and still with another surgery ahead of him, there’s not much we can say.”

“When can you?” Sam wanted to know.

“Well,” he answered, “we’re estimating another five or six hours for this surgery. I think, if all goes well there, after another twenty-four hour period we’ll be able to make a more thorough assessment.” He looked at them both kindly. “If all does go well, you’ll be able to go in and sit with him after this surgery. Now, I have to go—Dr. Pace is going to be the surgeon for this one, but I’m still on his case and will keep you all updated when I can.”

Sam and Bobby both shook hands with him and thanked him, and then sat down to wait for Dean to come out.

“How’s Dean holding up?” Bobby eventually asked.

Sam looked at him incredulously. “Are you kidding? When has he ever held up well during stuff like this?”

“I meant besides his normal baseline angst and guilt-tripping,” Bobby said, sounding annoyed. “You know what I mean—it’s _Cas_ in there.”

Sam sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, rubbing at the corners of his eyes. “Yeah, I know what you mean,” he sighed. “And no, he’s still not taking it well. And of course he won’t _talk_ about it—even less than usual. So I don’t even know how bad it is.”

There was a thump and a hiss, the sound of the ICU door swinging open, and Sam looked up. And he found out just how bad it was.

Dean’s face was paper-white, his eyes huge and red-rimmed. He tottered out on legs that looked like they were made of wet noodles and collapsed in a chair in the corner. Sam and Bobby exchanged worried glances, not bothering to hide the way they were looking at him, but Dean didn’t notice, just hunched down to lean on his knees, rubbing his face with one hand.

Yeah. It was bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you want to know what Dean was thinking and feeling when he first saw Cas in the ICU ward at the end of this chapter, you can find out in “[Through Our Silence](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1177425/chapters/3694079)”.


	2. Hurt and Helpless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wait in the hospital stretches longer, and Sam and Bobby do what they can to keep Dean together.

Sam didn’t want to leave, not while Cas was under the knife, but an hour or two into the start of his second surgery, he was embarrassed to find that his stomach was growling, and loudly. But it wasn’t just him—Bobby was coming down off his caffeine OD from the trip up and was getting the jitters and wanted some food too. To top it all off, _Dean_ needed to eat, and Sam didn’t care if he didn’t want to, because he was gonna. He and Dean hadn’t eaten anything more substantial than a couple of sandwiches and some vending machine junk food in over twenty four hours.

But since it was five in the morning, nothing in the hospital was open. So, after telling Bobby to stay with Dean, Sam went out to trawl for some food. Bobby had already driven over twenty-four hours in the last thirty-six, and no way Dean was going anywhere, so Sam took the car. And, as much as it pissed him off (and hurt a little, he’d admit it) he also knew that there was a slightly better chance that Dean might actually _talk_ to Bobby about Cas being in there. Barring that first morning after he and Cas got together, Dean just refused breathe the slightest word of their relationship to Sam and would all but have a punch-throwing tantrum any time Sam tried to bring it up to him. He didn’t know if Dean was trying to _shield_ him from it or some shit, or if it was just because he couldn’t stand the idea of his little brother thinking he was gay, but either way, he just _wouldn’t_.

Sam managed to find an IHOP, always a safe bet and always open, and got burgers and fries to go for Dean and Bobby and a club sandwich for himself. As he predicted, when he got back to the hospital, he’d had to make Dean eat. And he hadn’t been above using dirty tactics to get him to do it. “Come on, Dean—they said we can go sit with Cas once he gets out of surgery, and we won’t be able to have food in the ICU. We need to eat now so we can stay with him.”

And that had done it. Dean’s stomach was hungry, even if his mind wasn’t, and he’d eaten it all in short order, albeit mechanically. With nothing else to occupy their time after their dinner-breakfast, Bobby had wanted the full details of the hunt, what they’d dug up on Gertrude Peters, and just how everything had gone so wrong. It wasn’t just Dean; Bobby was pissed, and Sam was too, and they both had every intention of seeing that bitch put down. Thoughts of revenge were certainly something to keep them busy, anyway.

Around about eight-thirty, Steinbrenner finally appeared again, and he looked pleased. “Your brother is out of surgery,” he said without preamble. “And everything went very well. He is still in critical condition; we’re going to give him another twenty-four hours to recover, and barring any signs of infection or increased bleeding, we’ll make an assessment.” He looked at Dean. “He’s back in the same room he was earlier—you can go in and sit with him now.”

Dean was gone before the words were quite out of his mouth; Sam and Bobby stuck around long enough to say thank you and request continued updates as he got them, and then they followed Dean, getting buzzed in through the big locked door. They stopped at the main desk to find out where Cas’s room was and to be admonished that only two visitors were allowed in a room at a time before they were hurrying down the hall and around the corner to room 301A.

The ward wasn’t large; it was uncomfortably quiet and filled with rhythmic mechanical throbs and sighs and beeps, like all ICUs were. They really hadn’t needed to ask where Cas was—there weren’t many rooms, and it was impossible not to spot Dean’s hunched figure where he stood by the bed in the room at the end of the hall.

The automatic doors swished as Sam charged in, followed by Bobby, but he stopped short—

_Jesus._

There was Cas. He was lying in the bed, propped up half on his side on a huge pillow with his back to them, tubes coming out of him and leading back to the battery of life support apparatus at the head of the bed, wires snaking out from underneath his thin hospital gown…which was open in the back, revealing the massive swath of bandages covering his back.

Sam’s throat went tight has he haltingly approached the bed and came around to stand next to Dean. God—Cas looked so _small_ , lying there hooked up on all those machines. The ventilator tube was jammed roughly in his slack mouth and held in place with tape, and another fed into his nose. One motionless hand was visible on top of the thin sheet that was covering him; an electrode paid away from his wrist, and an IV drip was feeding into his arm. His eyes were closed, his face covered with a myriad of tiny cuts, and he was deathly pale; the only sign of life was the slow, shallow rise and fall of his breathing in time with the machines.

Dean hadn’t moved; he was just standing there, his fingers white-knuckled where they were clenched around the bedrail. The only sound in the room was the steady beeping of the monitors and hissings of the ventilator and all the other constant, repeating noises of the machines Cas was hooked up to.

Sam swallowed, and reached out to tentatively cover Cas’s hand with his own; there was no response, and his fingers were icy.

Bobby came up to stand on the other side of the bed, surveying Cas’s bandaged back. “You did a number on yourself this time, boy,” he said to his still form after a moment, breaking the oppressive silence.

“Yeah,” Sam agreed softly. “I owe him.” He glanced over at Dean. “I’ll have to make it up to him when he’s back on his feet.”

“It’s fucking freezing in here,” Dean said abruptly, his voice hoarse. “Can’t they get him a blanket or something? You know he hates the cold.”

Sam flicked his eyes up. Dean was just staring down at Cas, not looking at anybody else. “Yeah, Dean,” he said quietly. “We’ll see if we can’t get him one from a nurse.”

Nobody moved, though, not yet, and nobody said anything else. They all just stood clustered around the bed, holding silent vigil until the door swished open and a nurse came in.

Her name was Natasha; she was a pretty blonde girl with glasses who said that she was Cas’s nurse during the day. Bobby backed out of the way as she came over to peer at Cas’s bandages and check the monitors over his head. “Technically you’re not all three supposed to be in here, but if you all promise to behave, we can let it slide,” she said, smiling at Sam.

“Uh, thanks—we’d like to, if it’s okay. We’re his only family,” he answered. He glanced back at Dean, who still refused to move, and asked, “Can we get a couple of blankets in here?”

Sam had moved out of the way while she uncapped the needle on the syringe she’d brought in with her and injected whatever it was into Cas’s IV. “Sure thing.” She watched the monitors a moment more, and then smiled again. “Let me go get those for you.”

She left with a swish of the automatic doors but was back again in short order, carrying three of those soft, thin hospital blankets. The minute she left, Dean snatched one from the pile in Sam’s arms. He couldn’t cover Cas up, not really, what with all his tubes and stuff, and to say nothing of his bandages, but he did very carefully tuck it all around his legs where he could. Then he stood back, taking up his post beside the bed and not saying anything.

There were two large chairs in the room by the large window across from Cas. Bobby needed some sleep, so Sam told him to take one, and Bobby didn’t waste any time doing so. Sam himself stood up beside Cas’s bed for a while, watching him and watching Dean, but eventually it became obvious that Dean just wanted to stand here with Cas and that Sam couldn’t do anything for him, so he went over and sat down next to where Bobby had already settled in and closed his eyes.

Sam must have dozed off at some point; he had just been sitting there quietly, watching Dean as he watched Cas, when he was suddenly waking up, opening his eyes to find the room much brighter, with the yellow noonday sun pouring in the window from a cheerfully blue sky outside. Bobby was snoring faintly from the chair next to him, and he looked up to see Dean still next to Cas’s bed. He guessed he must have gotten a chair from the nurse; he was sitting down, resting his chin on the bedrail.

Sam got up and went over to stand next to him, and could only smile a little when he saw that he’d fallen asleep there. He was going to be hurting when he woke up, all bent over like that, so Sam wrapped his hands around his shoulders and gently shook him.

Dean snapped awake with a jolt, giving Sam a wild-eyed, disoriented look as he stared all around the room, trying to figure out where he was, until his eyes lit on Cas. Cas hadn’t moved, was in that same lifeless pose he’d been in since who knew how long, and Sam saw Dean’s jaw tighten and his eyes shutter at the sight of him. He sighed. “Come on, Dean,” he said, his voice reflexively quiet in the room. “You’ve hardly slept in days, man—why don’t you go sit down in the good chair over there and try to take a nap. I’ll sit with Cas for a while,” he added when Dean looked like he was about to snap at him.

Dean looked down at Cas, at his empty and scabbed face, and he scrubbed a hand over his eyes before managed to say, “I—okay. I should probably get some sleep. We—we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“Yeah,” Sam agreed, keeping his hands on his shoulders and half-guiding him towards the empty chair. It was a mark of how tired and badly distracted Dean was that he didn’t try to shake him off. He just sat down heavily in the chair, rubbing his eyes, and didn’t even muster much of a glare at Sam when he draped the unused blanket over him. By the time Sam had taken up Dean’s vacated seat, Dean’s eyes were already closed.

And that’s how it went. All day and into the night, they just sat and watched and waited. The hours were long and bled into each other, long stretches of time filled with all the sounds of cycling machinery, broken only by the occasional visit from Natasha or Melissa, the night nurses, to check up on Cas or give him various medications. Cas didn’t move; nothing seemed to change. When it was his turn to take up the post by his bed, Sam would sometimes talk to him, even though he got no answer, just softly thanking him for saving him and telling him to get better. He knew Bobby talked to him too, when he was sitting next to him, but his one-sided dialogue seemed to consist mostly of gruffly affectionate insults and scolding for getting himself into this fix.

Dean didn’t say anything to him.

Sometime in evening, Sam and Bobby agreed that it was time to get something to eat before the hospital cafeteria closed, so the two of them trooped to the other end of the building to rustle something up. It wasn’t actual interest in food, but Sam did manage to get Dean to voice some preference about what he would like them to get for him—pizza, he said, because hospital burgers were crap.

So Sam checked out the pizza after he had raided the salad bar for himself and Bobby got a couple of sandwiches and some fries, but he waited to get any until he was done so it would still be hot when he took it up for Dean. He and Bobby stayed down in the cafeteria to eat; there was no way Dean would let Cas sit by himself, so they’d have to be finished so at least one of them could sit with him while Dean ate.

“Well, shit,” Bobby said sourly as he swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “The closest I’ve seen Dean to looking this bad is when you went and got yourself killed or something.”

Sam gave an entirely unamused laugh around his mouthful of salad. “It’s no surprise, Bobby—you know he was always close to Cas, even before. And now, they’ve been together for—what, ten years?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve,” Sam agreed. “And Cas has never had any kind of trouble like this in that whole time. Just some minor accidents here and there, but never anything like this. This has gotta be awful for him.” He stabbed a tomato slice rather violently. “Not that he’ll actually talk about it, of course.”

“Don’t you go gettin’ all butthurt about that now, Sam,” Bobby admonished. “You know he never talked about even his steady girlfriends—and you’re the last person he wants anywhere near his love life now.”

“But I was the _first_ person he talked to about his so-called love life now!” Sam was crumbling a Saltine cracker into powder. “He _knows_ I know what’s going on, and he knows I’m _fine_ with it! He _should_ be able to tell me these things—I’m his _brother_ , Bobby.”

“And that’s why he won’t,” Bobby said simply. “I know you’re all gung-ho to be accepting or whatever, but honestly, boy, think how it’s got to be for him. Would you want to go around telling Dean all about how you’re doin’ a guy now, if you were?”

“Well—no—but it’s been twelve years!”

Bobby shrugged. “I dunno—I think there are some things you just don’t get over. That may be one of ‘em for Dean.” He looked up from his fries at Sam. “Those two knuckleheads have managed to rock along well enough for that long without too much input from us—we don’t need to be upsetting the apple cart now. If Dean wants to talk, he will, but if he doesn’t, we ain’t gonna make him.”

Sam slumped in his seat, poking at the remains of his salad. “I just wish—” he started, got stuck, but finally managed, “I just wish I could _help_ him.”

“And you are.” Sam looked up to find Bobby looking at him with something almost like a smile. “You just keep doin’ what you’re doin’—bein’ there for him, worryin’ about Cas for him, and not callin’ attention to what Cas is to him. In case you hadn’t noticed, he’s bein’ a hell of a lot more open about things than he usually is. We just need to let him work through it at his own _very slow_ pace,” Bobby finished, and rolled his eyes a little at the end.

Sam couldn’t help but smile a little. “Now, speaking of Dean,” Bobby said, “since we’re done, we’d better get him his dinner before he starts gettin’ bitchy.” His eyes were amused. “I’d hate to call anything about this whole deal ‘good,’ but there is an upshot here: if Dean were any less distracted, he’d be convinced that we came down here and talked about him and we’d have to deal with him throwin’ a fit over it.”

Sam snorted, and then just picked up his trash and went back into the cafeteria. He got Dean some pizza and the last of the breadsticks and a Coke, and in a small gesture of hope, grabbed a clear plastic container with a slice of Oreo cookies’n’cream pie.

Sam waited outside of the ICU with the food—he couldn’t take it in—while Bobby went in to blast Dean out of there to go eat. It took longer than would be normally necessary, but eventually the door swung open and Dean came shuffling out.

When he sat down on the other side of the low table, Sam decided to take Bobby’s words to heart. “You look like crap,” he said bluntly, pushing the plastic sack with his food across the table and getting a dirty look for his troubles. “You haven’t slept as much as Bobby and I have.” He wasn’t lying; Dean was pasty and pale and had dark circles under his eyes. No surprise, given that he managed to grab nothing but short, hour-long naps since they got here, never any real sleep. “You should try to get some shut-eye after we get back in there; you’re no use to anybody when you’re exhausted.”

Dean grunted around the pizza in his mouth.

“I figure you want to be alert when they come in to check Cas out tomorrow morning,” Sam added casually.

Dean just grunted again, working very steadily through his pizza; Sam guessed he was hungrier than he’d thought.

Sam didn’t say much else, just let Dean eat in peace but sat with him all the same—and he was rewarded by the heartening sight of Dean eating his pie. And then, to make things even better, after they went back into the ICU, Dean eventually did settle into one of the chairs to catch up on some sleep.

Sam too drifted off in one of the big chairs by the window; he slowly woke up at the sound of Bobby standing up and moving around. He blinked sleepily, still in that fuzzy time right after waking. Bobby spotted him looking at him and said, “Gonna hit the head, Sam. I’ll be back.”

Sam nodded vaguely and then yawned. The windows were dark, the room lit only by all the monitors and blinking LEDs behind Cas’s bed. The digital wall clock said it was just around four in the morning. He sighed, wiggling around to settle down deeper in his chair, pulling the blanket that had been draped over his lap higher up, around his shoulders. He glanced over to his right; Dean was slumped in the other chair, his mouth hanging open, sound asleep, like he had been when Sam last remembered being awake. Good—he needed some actual real sleep; he was torqued up enough as it was without fighting exhaustion on top of it. Sighing again, he looked over at Cas.

Cas was looking back.

Sam stared. Cas’s eyes were open, unblinking but unfocused, staring sightlessly into the room. Sam could only gawp at him, taken completely by surprise—until Cas suddenly tried to move, but then froze with a tiny, pitiful cry of pain.

“Cas!” Sam shot to his feet as Cas flumped back down on his pillow, but then he was trying to move again, his splinted arm flopping uselessly around the bed, and Sam yelled, “Dean!” over his shoulder, saw his brother start and almost fall out of his chair, but then he was by Cas’s bed, trying to get a hold on him wherever he wouldn’t hurt him, trying to keep him still.

“Cas, it’s all right! You’re all right, just keep still!”

“ _Cas?!_ ” Dean’s voice was rough with sleep but loud and alert, and then Sam found himself bunted out of the way by Dean’s hip. “Cas! Be _still_! Hold on, we’re— _please_ , Cas—” but Cas just kept trying to move, his helpless little sounds of pain cutting across Dean’s words, and Sam could hear his brother’s voice crack at the sound of it.

“I’ll get a nurse,” Sam told him, and then dashed out of the room.

“Nurse!” he called as loudly as he dared, and then he saw the short, round form of the night nurse sitting behind the station. “Uh—Melissa! Cas is awake,” he said urgently when she looked up.

“Oh—already?” she asked, her voice easy and not the least bit alarmed. “Well, then I guess we’d better see what he’s up to.”

“He keeps trying to move—it hurts him but he won’t be still,” Sam said, taking tiny half-steps to keep up with her very short stride and to keep himself from running back into the room.

“That’s pretty normal,” she reassured him. “He’s waking up after being under anesthetic after a serious accident, so he’s confused—and honestly, waking up in an ICU would be disorienting even if he wasn’t.”

The doors to Cas’s room slid open and they rushed in to find Dean looking panicked as he tried to keep Cas still without touching his bandages. Melissa didn’t seem fazed in the least. She just took one look at him and then leaned out through the still-open door and called, “Mike? Can you come in here, please?”

She went around the bed, executing a very similar move on Dean as what Dean had done to Sam, pushing him out of the way with her well-padded hip. She got a quick, firm grip on Cas, not hesitating about where to grab him at all, and said, “I’m gonna need you boys to step outside.”

Dean was clearly reluctant, but when the doors opened again to admit a tallish male nurse with tightly curled hair, Sam said, “Come on, Dean—we’re only gonna be in the way. Let’s get out of here and let them take care of Cas.”

Dean very slowly moved out of the way and around the bed, at least until he was within arm’s reach and Sam just grabbed him and hauled him out. Then they just stood out in the hall, watching helplessly as the two nurses held Cas down, shot something into his IV, and then made a call they couldn’t hear on the room intercom.

“Sam? Dean? What’s goin’ on? What happened?” Bobby had reappeared behind them, his book still in his hand, looking alarmed.

“Cas woke up,” Sam said.

“What happened? Did he say anything?”

Sam shook his head as Dean just started pacing, his hands locked tightly on the back of his neck. “No—he’s still disoriented from the anesthesia. Kept trying to move around.”

“Hmm—yeah, it’s a bitch comin’ off that stuff. They’ll get him settled down, though,” Bobby said.

There was the sound soft footsteps approaching, and they looked up to see the familiar face of Dr. Steinbrenner coming down the hallway towards Cas’s room. “Hello, gentlemen,” he said easily. “I hear your brother is awake.”

“What—is something wrong?” Dean demanded, an edge of panic to his voice.

“Oh, no—he’s just awake earlier than expected. That’s fairly normal. It’s just standard procedure to call in the case physician to do the follow-ups at checkpoints like this. Excuse me,” he said, detouring around them and into the room.

It couldn’t have been more than twenty minutes that they stood out there, but it felt like hours. Dean was pacing a trench in the floor, and Sam and Bobby were standing helplessly to the side, just watching through the glass doors. They eventually managed to get Cas calmed down—or at least what looked like it. He wasn’t trying to flop around anymore, anyway, and Sam was pretty sure that Steinbrenner was actually talking to him.

At last, Steinbrenner came back out into the hallway, and his face was the most positive that they’d seen yet. “Your brother is fine,” he reassured them immediately. “He was just disoriented after waking up—usual after extensive surgery like his. He’s calmed down now, and we’ll be giving him another dose of pain medication and a mild sedative to keep him quiet and relaxed. Right now he just needs his rest.”

“But how is he—long term?” Bobby cut in.

“Well, we’re still going to give him his scheduled follow-up at nine o’clock this morning—new X-rays, blood pressure and the like. He isn’t out of critical condition, by any means—and I have to tell you that whatever his prognosis, he may not recover back to one hundred percent. His lung was badly damaged, and there may be some nerve damage in his arm and shoulder—he may never recover complete mobility.”

Dean’s face was going more and more taut with every word he spoke, and Sam knew his own was doing the same, until suddenly Steinbrenner smiled and said, “But, even if he doesn’t make it back to his full pre-accident condition, given how well his operations went and that he is in such excellent shape for his age, I think we can say that he will pull through.”

And just like that, Sam felt his whole body pretty much go limp, the dull warmth of relief suffusing from his middle all the way out to his extremities. Dean almost seemed to sway where he was standing when he said that, raising one hand to scrub it furiously over his face.

“Thank you, Doc,” Bobby said, giving him a heartfelt handshake.

“No thanks needed,” he replied easily. “Now, as soon as Mike and Melissa have finished up, you can go back in. He’ll probably be asleep very soon; it’s better for him, so he doesn’t have to deal with the pain and can heal better, but he’s awake now and mostly coherent. Don’t tire him out, but hopefully you’ll be able to talk with him before he’s out again. I’ll see you gentlemen later this morning,” he finished, and then nodded to them and left.

Sam turned to Bobby and let out a huge exhale; Bobby just laughed and then threw an arm up around Sam’s neck in a hug, and he didn’t put up with Dean’s standoffishness either, just grabbed a handful of his shirt and yanked him over into the hug too.

They stood there in a cluster until the doors opened and the two nurses came back out. “You can go in now,” Melissa said kindly. “He’ll probably be awake for a bit longer, but he’ll be out again soon. Just having you around will help, though—he asked about you.”

Sam looked at Dean and saw his Adam’s apple bob in his neck before he nodded once sharply to the nurses and then charged back into Cas’s room, Sam and Bobby right behind him as they called their hurried thanks.

Dean skidded to a halt beside Cas’s bed. Cas’s eyes were still open, the circles under them darker than usual, his pupils hugely dilated from whatever he was on, and he was blinking slowly. The tube was no longer stuck in his mouth, but had been replaced with a more typical oxygen mask. Bobby and Sam crowded up to stand behind Dean.

“Cas?” Dean asked slowly.

Cas blinked once more, and his eyes focused briefly, his dry tongue rasping once over his cracked lips. “…Dean?” It came out as barely more than a whisper.

Dean was still. Sam was about to speak when Dean beat him to it.

“You stupid son of a _bitch_.”

Sam started at Dean’s sudden harsh voice. “What the _fuck_ were you thinking?” he hissed, his fingers wrapping tightly around the bedrail and squeezing tight enough to make it creak. “Don’t you ever—don’t you _ever_ pull that kind of shit again, _do you hear me_?! You sorry _bastard_!”

 _Oh, goddammit, Dean! Not_ now _!_ “ _Dean!_ ” Sam hissed, grabbing his shoulder, but Dean just jerked away. Cas was blinking owlishly up at him, and Sam was pretty sure he couldn’t understand half of what Dean was saying.

“Fucking sloppy work!” Dean was snarling down at him. “Like some kind of goddamn _amateur_ , getting hit by a fucking ghost, oh, that’s rich—and you’re supposed to be able to _see_ them anyway! Maybe if you hadn’t been standing there holding your dick this wouldn’t have happened!”

“Dean—shut up,” Bobby said flatly.

“Sam…” Cas wheezed painfully, trying to swallow.

“Don’t you try to pull that shit on me!” Dean growled, ignoring Bobby like he had Sam. “Oh, so you saved Sam—and a fucking piss-poor job you did, too, getting yourself staked like fucking Bela Lugosi!”

“Where…”

“ _What_ , goddammit?” Dean demanded, looming over him. “Just how the _fuck_ are you trying to get out of this one, you stupid feathery _dick_?”

“Sam…safe? All right?”

Dean went rigid, his jaw clenched and his throat working, quivering from head to toe—and then he spun on his heel, pushing past Sam and Bobby and striding furiously across the room to stand by the window, one hand clenched tightly on the frame, and the other coming up to press his fist against his mouth.

Sam caught Bobby’s eye as they turned back towards Cas; Bobby just closed his eyes and shook his head briefly, and Sam sighed before dropping down into a half-crouch. “Hey, Cas,” he said gently, taking his hand. “It’s Sam—I’m right here.”

“…Sam…”

“Yeah—and I’m fine. You saved my bacon, buddy.” He felt Cas’s limp fingers squeeze his slightly, and there was a prickling in the corner of his eyes that he blinked away. “I owe you one—now, you just concentrate on healing up, okay?”

Cas made a small noise that might have been agreement, and he closed his eyes for a moment before opening them when Bobby reached down and put a roughly gentle hand on the top of his head. “Hey, kid,” he said. “I’m here too. You had us worried, there.”

Cas was quiet, just looking up at them, his eyes sliding in and out of focus. His blinking was getting slower, and his eyes stayed shut longer between them.

There was a squeak of rubber on tile, and Sam looked around to see Dean slowly approaching again, his eyes red. Sam and Bobby both moved out of the way; he came and stood between them. “Cas?” he said, his voice rough.

Cas didn’t answer, his eyes staying closed, and for a minute Sam was worried that he’d already gone under from his meds, but then, ever-so-slowly, his eyes opened again. “Dean…” he murmured.

Dean coughed and then cleared his throat. “You—uh—you just work on gettin’ back on your feet, dude,” he said, and he swallowed once and added, “We’ll be right here while you do.”

Cas gave what looked to be a tiny nod, and Sam felt his fingers squeeze once again.

And the three of them stayed right there with him until he was asleep.

* * *

That had been six months ago. Cas had been in the ICU for ten days, and they’d stayed with him the whole time just like they’d promised, making sure at least one of them was always in his room. He’d recovered at an excellent pace, according to his doctor, his bleeding stopping and with no signs of infection, and had been shipped out into the in-patient ward as soon as he was able. He spent a bit more time in there, healing up and starting some rehab for his arm. All told, they’d wound up camping out in Vermont for about a month until Cas was safe to move.

They hadn’t been idle during that time, though—oh no. They had a score to settle. They’d been planning to put old Gertrude Peters down back when she was killing people they’d never heard of—but now, it was _personal_.

Sam and Bobby were plenty driven to root out whatever was keeping her tied to the earth after her corpse had been burned, but Dean was like a man possessed. Gone was his usual bitching about research and the tedious side of hunting—he was tracking her down through library and record alike, and he wasn’t going to stop until he’d paid her back.

And he did, too. They all did. Eventually, they’d hunted up not her possessions, but those of Francis Allen, her erstwhile fiancé. They didn’t quite get the skinny on the situation between the two of them, but eventually they’d found in a small local museum a ring that used to belong to him, made in the style common for engaged couples in those days—with a braided lock of dark brown hair under glass as the centerpiece. And the initials GP were engraved on the side.

Dean used it to summon up any spirit bound to it, just to make sure, and sure enough, it was Gertrude. She was wild, furious and yammering and spitting about faithless men and punishing them all, but a little judicious application of a blowtorch to the ring that resulted in some nasty burns made her talk. The gist was that dear old Francis had jilted her, and she hung herself in the barn in front of him to pay him back and ruin his reputation with his new fiancée. She hadn’t counted on him panicking and burying her in the root cellar, though, so no one would know. After dragging the story out of her and making sure that the ring was what was keeping her here, she’d gone back to screaming and ranting at them both about how Cas and everyone else she’d attacked deserved it and how she was going to kill them all—until Dean, with nothing more than the pithy farewell of, “Sayonara, bitch,” torched the ring and sent her up in smoke.

Dean had taken great delight in relaying the story to Cas back at the hospital, and was in such high spirits that he’d had to hit on Cas’s nurse when she came in later.

By the time he was in the in-patient ward, Cas was mostly back to himself. He didn’t seem to know what to do there, though, just laying around and doing nothing. Bizarrely, even though there was something seriously wrong with him this time, none of his hypochondriac tendencies seemed to surface. Bobby just shrugged and said that most of his problem was getting worked up into a panic about what he _might_ have; here, he was being watched and monitored and the doctors told him exactly what was wrong and what he needed to do to get better, so he had no reason to imagine that he had some exotic disease.

Still, he was obviously bored. Dean had let him use his computer if he wanted to surf, and Sam had braved a pink, sugary-smelling, tightly-packed little craft store run by a couple of blue-haired old ladies to find him some yarn and a crochet hook. He had no idea if he had gotten the right thing, but Cas didn’t seem to have any problems and took to making yet another afghan with right good will, working quickly despite his splinted shoulder. Bobby chipped in by going out and buying him a stack of tatty romance novels at the used book store. Dean bitched at him for it and had said he was teaching Cas to like crap and turning him into a huge sissy (Sam smothered a laugh), and so gave him _Slaughterhouse-Five_ instead. To no one’s surprise but Dean’s, that just confused him, so Bobby offered to compromise by getting him into some actual literature, but something he might like a little more. So he got him started on Jane Austen and the Brontë sisters, which Cas couldn’t get enough of. Dean just threw his hands up in disgust and had informed Cas that he was hopeless and that he was washing his hands of him—but that didn’t stop him from bringing Cas in a big fat gyro for dinner the following week.

But by mid-June, Cas was given the best possible bill of health he could get and was cleared to check out. He was by no means fine, but he could do the rest of his healing at home and didn’t have to stay in the hospital anymore.

Dean had been anxious to go, to get out of town and back to familiar turf, and to get away from the hospital in general. He’d spent the entire second half of Cas’s stay fussing about how creepy and unhealthy the places were and wanting out (and griping at Cas for going and getting himself laid up so he had to be in one). At least Dean was back to himself—getting Cas out of the ICU had gone a long way to driving off that awful, quiet fear that gripped him while they were there.

Honestly, Cas had been eager to leave too. So the morning he was scheduled for release, Dean had turned up with an RV of all things, with a bed in the back, and they’d checked Cas out and after dosing him up with his pain meds and handful of tranqs, and loaded him up in the back and caravanned out.

They’d taken the trip back at a fairly easy pace, even if Cas was in a comfortable position. The RV had been handy anyway, as they’d just been able to stop when they felt like it and sleep there on the side of the road. The trip took three days, and at the end of the third, they were rolling into the old homestead. They unloaded Cas and took him upstairs to his own room and his own bed for the first time in a month.

Since then, Cas had just been staying at home. Bobby kept him on a steady regimen of rehab, running him into Sioux Falls General for a few follow-up visits to make sure he was coming along as he should. Cas had healed up at a very steady clip, and aside from apparently giving Bobby some very dirty looks when he was forcing him through his rehab paces, his reports were all good.

The only dust-up they’d had had, surprisingly, been from Dean. Bobby had run Cas in for his first follow-up after they’d gotten him home, and when they’d returned, he’d been armed with a battery of medications, including some powerful pain pills.

And Dean had very nearly chucked them in the trash.

“What the hell are you doing?” Bobby had demanded, snatching the crinkling paper sack away from him.

“He doesn’t need that shit,” Dean replied gruffly.

“My ass,” Bobby said, incredulous. “In case you didn’t notice, some bitch spirit used him for target practice!”

“He’s out of the hospital, isn’t he? Dean had demanded. “If he’s out, he’s fine, and he doesn’t need to keep sucking on the pill bottles!”

The argument had only gotten more heated from there, and Dean had gotten more and more irrational as it had progressed, and as he did, his real intentions had become more clear: he didn’t want Cas getting _addicted_ to the stuff.

Sam had been a bit puzzled. Dean had always been very adamant about not letting Cas have any booze; the one time early on when they had come home and found Cas hungover from hitting the liquor cabinet when Bobby wasn’t around, Dean had hit the roof. Since then, Cas had been limited to one beer at a sitting. Sam had always privately guessed it was because deep down, Dean was aware that he was a functional alcoholic despite the fact that he’d cleaned up somewhat over the years and just didn’t want Cas going down that road too. But something about the slight panic that was bleeding through his words when hollering at Bobby that he didn’t want Cas turning into some kind of a coked-out junkie spoke of something else, some darker reason that Sam didn’t understand.

At any rate, Bobby had eventually put an end to it. “ _Dean_ ,” he said loudly. “Cas has three punctured internal organs, seven broken bones, 293 stiches, and bruising all over half his body—I’m giving him his goddamn pain meds!”

Dean had finally had no response and had sat down heavily in a chair, his jaw tight. Bobby leaned down in close to him, his voice measured. “Dean—I’m not just gonna let him pour ‘em down his own throat. I’ll watch ‘em, and I’ll tell him when he can have ‘em, and when they’re done, they’re done. He doesn’t get any more. He’ll be fine.”

Dean had nodded in defeat, and that storm had blown over. At any rate, Cas had gone through all his prescriptions in about a month after he got home, exactly on schedule with how many pills he’d gotten, and since then, Bobby had been true to his word, giving him nothing stronger than aspirin.

And, well, other than that, everything had been fine. Gloomy possibilities aside, it looked like Cas was pretty much back to peak efficiency. He wasn’t numb anywhere, his arm worked like it should, he could breathe fine—everything was back to normal. Cas had been eager to get back into his routine, cleaning Bobby’s house for him and helping him with their research. At first, Dean had said he needed to relax for a while and had volunteered himself (and Sam) to do his chores. But Cas gradually started easing into things, and after a point, Bobby had told them that Cas was healing up just fine and they didn’t need to be just hanging around underfoot and getting in his way, so he found a hunt for them and threw them both out.

So, Sam and Dean went back out on the road. But they made it a point to go for cases that were relatively close to South Dakota when they could, and rather than trawl around looking for new jobs, after each one they always just went straight back to Bobby’s. They didn’t talk about it, and nobody had suggested it; it was just understood that they’d go back between hunts and visit Cas.

They had just gotten back from their longest stint away from the home fort since Cas had been hurt, actually. That was Dean’s fault, though—after five months of rehab and a complete recovery, according to the doctor at Sioux Falls General, Cas was fully back on his feet. That being the case, Bobby had suggested that maybe they think about taking him out on a hunt and get him back onto the job.

Dean said no, flat out. He’d informed them Cas wasn’t ready, that they were wrong if they thought so—and that included some idiot doctor who didn’t know shit—and so he wouldn’t do it. He and Bobby had snipped at each other over it—Sam’s arguments were dismissed outright, of course, since he was the stupid baby brother and what did he know—but the best Bobby could get out of Dean was a grudging agreement to take Cas out the next time they found what looked like a job they could take him on. An _easy_ one, Dean insisted, and Sam knew perfectly well that he would be able to milk that qualifier for all it was worth and wouldn’t let Cas go up against anything fiercer than a caterpillar.

And then cue Dean loading Sam up in the car and keeping them on the road for almost a month. They only dropped in when they knew they didn’t have a case, and didn’t stick around long enough for Bobby to find them one. Sam had finally had enough, and when they got back to the house on this latest small break, he’d pretty much just told Dean that he was going to stay at the house for a week, and Dean could just do whatever he felt like.

Dean had been bitchy, at least in the car, but he got over it quickly enough when they got back inside and he saw Cas standing by the sink, up to his elbows in soapy water.

And that was why Sam was sitting here, two days after they got back, looking for a new case.

It had been six months. Six long months since Cas’s accident.

Six long months during which Dean had maintained a strict distance of at least two car-lengths between the two of them.

Bobby had been right; back in the hospital, right after Cas had been hurt, all three of them—Dean included, miraculously—had tacitly acknowledged the twelve-year-old elephant in the room. They didn’t say anything, but they all knew it: Cas and Dean were together, and Dean had been worried as hell about him. It was about as open about his situation as Dean had been in that entire twelve-year span.

And, consequently, once Cas was out of danger, he’d bowed up and overcompensated in the opposite direction. While Cas was laid up in the ICU, all strapped into those machines and bandaged within an inch of his life, Sam and Bobby had sat with him, talked to him, and touched him where they could, petting his hair or patting his arm or holding his hand, just to give him some human contact and make sure he knew they cared.

Dean didn’t touch him once. And not just for comfort, either—it had fallen to Sam and Bobby to help him eat and move around and get to the bathroom, too, when he was able to get up. Dean wouldn’t, though—he just stood back to the side, looking like he badly _wanted_ to be able to touch him, but just couldn’t.

Dean did insist on driving the RV to get him home, giving Sam the keys to the Impala (with all manner of dire threats and warnings attached), but once they got back, Dean stepped aside again and the nursing duties fell to Bobby with the occasional help from Sam. It was like Dean had let out so much of his heart that now he was doing his best to pretend that it had never happened.

Dean was an idiot.

No, seriously. Because it wasn’t just that. Not surprisingly, while Cas was laid up, Dean had pretty much moved out of his room, taking the old couch in the back room or sleeping on the floor. But he was still doing that, even six months later. He was still treating Cas like he was made of glass, completely hands-off even after all this time.

Except…not completely. Not lately. Because lately, Dean had started touching Cas.

Thing was, Sam was pretty sure Dean wasn’t even aware he was doing it. It wasn’t like he’d suddenly gotten all lovey-dovey (and a good thing, too—Sam might have been fine with it or “accepting” or whatever Bobby said, but if Dean started _that_ , Sam would put a stop to it—immediately), but he was just…touching him. Little things, casual brushes here and there. Like yesterday when Cas had spilled powdered dish soap down his front when trying to open a new box. Normally Dean would have just laughed at him; this time, he still laughed, but he got up and helped to brush him off. And he was prone to grazing a hand on his arm to get his attention, bumping him with his shoulder when he thought he was being particularly clever, or putting a hand in the small of his back to guide him somewhere. It wasn’t overt, and it was obviously innocent…but it sure as hell wasn’t any way like Dean would touch Sam. It was chaste, but it was also distinctly…lover-like.

Six months. Six months since Dean had had any time alone with Cas, either at Bobby’s or off on one of their private hunts. Six months since Dean had been really able to relax, and six months’ worth of pent-up edginess and frustration that was starting to creep into his behavior.

Dean was horny.

Sam snorted to himself. That really wasn’t fair. Yeah, he was pretty sure that Dean was itching for a little hanky-panky on the side, but that wasn’t what he really wanted. No—it had just been six long months since Dean’s overdeveloped sense of heterosexuality let him just be _with_ Cas at all. And all that after a harrowing, near-death experience for him.

Dean just needed some time alone with Cas, where he could be with him like he needed to be without the constant (and irrational) fear of Sam or Bobby spotting them. So, here was Sam, and instead of playing matchmaker, now he was playing dating service.

He was moving down in the world.

Sam had (understandably) been soured a bit on the phrase “speak of the devil,” but it was really the only appropriate one that came to mind when the back door swung open and Dean came clomping in, beer in hand. “Hey, Sammy—what’s up?” he asked, coming over to nose in all the notes and papers on the table.

“Just looking around for any new cases—I think I found one. Gatlinburg, Tennessee,” he said, finding the right printout and handing to him. “Apparent suicide, only the guy got creative and cut his own throat.”

Dean grimaced. “There are easier ways to do it,” he said.

“Unless he didn’t—but there isn’t any evidence of anyone else that the cops can find.”

Dean’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Yeah, well, our kinds of killers never do leave evidence the cops can find, now do they?”

Sam nodded in agreement. “Not only that, but the house he lived in has a long, pretty nasty history of violent deaths.”

Dean set down his beer on the corner of the table and shuffled through the stack of papers. “Looks like we have a haunted house—joy,” he said, and dropped them on the table and looked up. “When should we head out?”

Sam sat back, crossing his arms. “Well, a haunted house is an easy one—and you told Bobby that you’d take Cas out on the next quick job we could find,” he said.

Dean’s face went tight, his expression immediately pissed. Sam gave him an irritated look. “Come on, Dean—it looks simple, just right to get him back in the game, and he’s good with hauntings in general. I know the last one went bad,” he said over Dean as he tried to open his mouth, “but that was just once, and all the other ghost hunts he’s been on, he was great.”

Dean glared at him and didn’t actually concede, but he did look off as he took a drink of his beer and didn’t protest, either, so Sam knew he’d won. “So, when do you want to head out, then?” Dean asked again after a moment.

Sam licked his lips, and then as casually as could, said, “Well, actually, I was thinking I might sit this one out. I know you don’t like leaving Bobby by himself these days any more than I do, so why don’t I stay with him and you can take Cas out on the hunt?”

Dean looked down at him with raised eyebrows that were rapidly followed by a smirk. “Aww, what’s the matter, Sammy—you gettin’ soft in your old age? Having trouble keeping up with me?”

Okay. Bobby had been right back at the hospital, and so Sam had kept on playing dumb for Dean’s sake. But _playing_ dumb and _being_ dumb were two very different things, and Dean was being very, very dumb.

“Dean,” he said, looking him right in the eye, his mouth tight as he spoke every word slowly and deliberately, “why don’t _you_ take _Cas_ with you on this one?”

Dean blinked at him, his face blank—and then he swelled where he stood, puffing up like a frog, a dark flush spreading on the back of his neck and to his face, his expression one of slowly dawning outrage.

Sam just skewered him with his gaze, refusing to back down, and he could see Dean struggling, clearly trying to find a really crushing retort—before he settled for spinning on his heel and stomping right back out of the house in high dudgeon.

Sam snorted in disgusted amusement and started to gather up all of his notes and the details on the case for Dean. He wouldn’t speak to him for the rest of the day, probably, but Sam knew he’d made his point, and that Dean would take Cas out on this job for one of their little dates.

And he was right. Dean didn’t talk to him, made a very large show of just how much he wasn’t talking to him, and went to bed early. And in the morning when Sam woke up just after dawn, looking to go for a run, he found the house cold and empty. His stacks of notes had vanished, except for a few scattered papers here and there on the tabletop. One of them had been doodled on in Dean’s sharp hand. There were a few notes on the case, some random cross-hatching in abstract shapes, a quick list of main highways to Gatlinburg, a scribbled drawing of Godzilla stomping on some buildings—and in a position of prominence in the middle of the page, highly visible, was a crude drawing of a dripping cock with big hairy balls, and an arrow pointing to the block letters spelling out “SAM.”

Dean and Cas were already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dean was half-right. Some of those meds _weren't_ very good for Cas. And, of course, Bobby had to deal with it in "[Side Effects May Include](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2092341)".
> 
> Unfortunately, being half-right about Cas having trouble with one of his prescriptions isn't enough to warrant not taking them at all--as Dean discovers in "[Addiction](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2095331)."


	3. Feel Like Making Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean takes Cas out on their first hunt since his accident, but a nasty reminder of just how close he came to losing him brings all his buried feelings to the surface.

_October 29, 2024_

Dean thought he’d made it perfectly clear years ago that Sam needed to keep his stupid weasel’s nose out of Dean’s business. But apparently, no, he hadn’t made it clear enough to the overgrown pinhead. So now, because Sam wouldn’t follow protocol and _mind his own fucking business_ , Dean was here with Cas in Tennessee.

Dean had _not_ been looking for an excuse to take Cas on a hunt. He _never_ did that, thank you. The hunts that he and Cas went on just _happened_ , was all. It was almost like a rotation—hell, it wasn’t like Sam and Cas hadn’t gone on hunts together so Dean could have a short break (or was laid up because a hunt had gone wrong). Cas just wasn’t a regular partner for either of them. He was a sub, nothing more—everyone involved preferred Cas back at home base with Bobby, because that meant he had all the materials needed for his research, which was his best skill.

But Sam had pulled _that_ stunt, with that stupid, patronizing, _knowing_ look, telling Dean to go take Cas on a “hunt”, but they both knew _exactly_ what he was saying.

And, of course, things didn’t get any better when they actually got to Tennessee. He should’ve known better than to trust anything Sam picked out for them, especially after he crossed that line. Oh, looks like a ghost, better go check out that strange death down in Gatlinburg, that _sure_ looked suspicious, and Dean didn’t think it did at all, but he’d wanted to get the hell away from Sam at the time and so had just done it. And, of course, it turned out to be nothing. Just some poor sap who forgot that mercury was bad for you. A shame it might be, but it was not his problem.

Sam was gonna pay for this when he got back. He was _so_ gonna pay for sending him and Cas on a dud hunt _on purpose_ like he was trying to set them up on some kind of fucking _date_.

Who did Sam think he was, anyway, sending them out here on a wild goose chase? Dean should have guessed what he was up to, what with the way Sam was falling all over himself to say that it would be a nice, easy hunt for Cas because he shouldn’t strain himself—goddammit, they were not gonna _coddle_ Cas. Did Dean ever baby Sam when he was getting up off his feet from an injury? Did _Dean_ ever ask to be treated like that? Hell, no. They got better and then hit the ground running. Cas was not gonna get some kind of note from his mommy that he couldn’t participate in Phys Ed just because he didn’t have wings anymore or something. But no, Sam had _insisted_ they try and ease him back into it after such a serious injury. Well, it didn’t get much easier than this, douchebag—they had absolutely nothing to do in this town because there was no fucking case.

Okay, fine. To be fair, it wasn’t _that_ bad—for Cas, that is. They’d rolled into Gatlinburg late in the evening, and after driving damn near twelve-hundred miles, he was starving. He’d picked the first place he’d seen that was open—the very stupidly-named Mellow Mushroom. Despite the stupid name, they’d had an impressive selection of beers, and so Dean had sampled three while Cas had just quietly eaten his hoagie (and stole a piece of Dean’s pizza). They’d booked a motel after dinner and had just crashed in separate beds, because driving for two days straight was never pleasant for anyone.

Next morning, they’d gone exploring—or rather, they’d gone straight to the scene of the crime, which was still all tied up with yellow tape. Cas had sailed inside, stood in the middle of the room, and just stared unblinkingly at everything as he always did when they did cases that involved ghosts and spirits. Two minutes later, Cas declared the entire situation ghost-free. Disgruntled, they’d cruised the town, asking around, doing follow-up work, but at the end of the search, they’d both come to the conclusion that just wasn’t their bag. Their research into the history of the house quickly showed that all of Sam’s oh-so-mysterious deaths were all totally boring and normal—just a lot of coincidences. The coroner’s report on the dude who offed himself had pretty much sealed the deal—mercury poisoning. The poor bastard had been fooling with the shit or something, got poisoned, and just went a little crazy. Dean had looked over some of the cop’s reports as well, and they were already talking about getting the experts in to decontaminate the place. They hadn’t come to any conclusions yet as to how he’d gotten poisoned, but it definitely wasn’t the evil mercury ghost doing it—no, this moron just did it to himself.

Goddammit, Sam.

He’d called up Sam immediately once he’d gotten back to the motel and had told him just how grateful he was for the snipe hunt with some of his more inventive expletives. He’d been about to tell Sam that they were about to head out and should be back the following evening when he’d seen Cas sitting by the window in their motel, staring out rather dreamily outside at the mountains covered in colorful trees—

…which he knew were part of a national park in the middle of the Smoky Mountains, and it was all just right there, and exactly kind of thing Cas just loved.

Shit. He and Sam always made it a point to visit national parks and cool crap on their trips. Cas never traveled as much, and this really was his kind of thing…

He’d paused for only a second before telling Sam they’d be heading out in a couple of days after he let Cas go check it out, his tone very clearly just _daring_ Sam to say anything about it, because he was not doing it for _that_. He was doing it because Cas was a hippie, thank you.

He figured they’d do that tomorrow, though—instead, he’d poked Cas out of his little tree-trance and gotten him up so they could go find some place to find some dinner. He’d gone straight to the big, flashy place he’d seen when they’d been cruising town—trout was big down here, and this was a specialty restaurant. But Dean didn’t give a rat’s ass about the fish; he was going for the _pie_. They’d had a big sign advertising all their specialty pies, all homemade and supposedly the best in the state (they all said that, but hey, one of them had to be right about it, so he stayed on the safe side and made it a point to try them all), and he wasn’t about to miss out on that.

Cas, of course, had tried to put him off food by ordering some weird shit for dinner—who the hell stuffed almonds and green beans in _trout_?—but he’d just focused on his burger and ignored him and flirted with the cute waitress when she came to ask them if they wanted dessert. Dean had gotten the house pie on her recommendation—key lime margarita, and it had been fucking amazing, just like she said it would be. He’d still glanced at the pie list that she’d handed to him before ordering and had noticed that the daily special was some kind of weird cinnamon pie; he didn’t even have to ask him to know that Cas would be all over that like white on rice, and he’d not been proven wrong. After dinner, full of damn fine pie and coffee (well, he’d had coffee; Cas had had a glass of sugary milk with a few drops of coffee in it), they’d headed back to the motel, and upon Dean’s suggestion had started up a few rounds of poker.

A few had turned into _quite_ a few, because after a decade of practice, Cas not only was pretty damn good at playing and reading his opponent’s expressions, but the little bastard _never_ gave himself away, the Great Stone Face, to say nothing of the little cheater’s card-counting. Dean was very annoyed with just how many hands he lost, and so kept them at it until he was confident he’d definitely won more times than Cas had before calling it quits.

Dean had settled in to watch TV after that, leaving Cas to putter around and be generally OCD about things. He’d cleaned up their card game, and then he’d tidied pretty much everything else. Dean thought it was pretty ridiculous, just like it always was when he went flitting around the room playing maid service—although the sight of Cas running around Bobby’s place with a feather duster sticking out of the pocket of the frilly old apron he’d been wearing had yet to be beat. Dean watched Cas in between watching _Croctopus_ , and was very unsurprised when, after Cas finally ran out of things to clean, he crawled into bed next to him.

It was amusing, how hesitant he was being. It was like he was trying to creep up on Dean or something. Dean let him, because it was funny. Cas had laid down way over on the far side of the bed at first, but he kept fidgeting, and every little “oh, let me get more comfortable” wiggle inched him closer and closer to where Dean was stretched out on his side. Dean had finally put an end to it when he’d unfolded his arms from behind his head and looped one around Cas, avoiding getting a grip on his shoulder and instead getting his arm under Cas’s and around his middle, dragging him over next to him.

Well, Cas had cozied right up to him after that, making himself at home and immediately getting one hand on his ribs and his face mashed up against Dean’s shoulder. Dean had just snorted to himself, idly rubbing Cas’s hip where his arm was slung low on his waist, watching the tail-end of his movie. Once it was over, though, Cas had decided to try and be clever, which had annoyed him.

Oh, it’d all been fine at first, Cas just lightly petting him, occasionally tilting his head up to press his lips against Dean’s jaw, and Dean had been more than happy to sometimes look down during the commercials and just kiss him back because he was right there, and all. But, as Cas always did when Dean’s shows came to a close, he kissed at Dean’s neck, and his hand slunk a little lower, his fingers curling up under the hem of Dean’s shirt…

Dean had put a stop to that. No shenanigans, dammit, not after what…what he’d been through, and Dean had told him so. Fortunately, even though he’d insisted that he was fine, Cas had not fussed or tried to get all handsy and horny. But that didn’t stop him from turning off the TV anyway and leaning in for a long, slow kiss.

And that’s how it had gone for—hell, Dean didn’t know. That first kiss had turned into a whole _bunch_ of them, Cas’s hands leisurely dragging all over Dean even as he returned the favor. He remembered turning off the lamp sometime during their very long make-out session, but beyond that it was just lips and tongues and warm breath and soft touches. Dean couldn’t remember a time he’d been so completely content and at ease with Cas—to the point that somewhere between their long, lazy kisses, they both just fell asleep like that, in their clothes and everything.

Cas had been the one to wake up first. And Dean knew this because Cas shook him awake, and the first thing he’d registered after Cas’s soppy entreaties for him to wake up was the smell of bacon. The next thing he knew, two stacked Styrofoam containers were being placed next to him on the bed and a cup of hot coffee was set down on the nightstand as Cas drifted back to the table to start in on his own breakfast.

After he’d taken a moment to be annoyed that Cas had just taken his car without asking, he’d sluggishly popped open the larger box to find extra-crispy hash browns, two eggs over-easy, bacon _and_ sausage— _link_ sausage—and two pieces of lightly-done white toast, with two little containers of butter and two more of strawberry jam. And the other, oh, hell yeah, had four fat, fluffy pancakes, a melty blob of butter running all over them, and a cup of real maple syrup. Cas must’ve hit one of the many breakfast huts that populated this town—and it looked like he’d picked a good one.

Well, Dean wasn’t gonna sit there and lounge around like Caligula and be served breakfast in bed—no, that was _Cas’s_ M.O. And Sam’s. He’d gotten up and trudged over to eat at the table properly, snorting at the sight of Cas chugging from a bottle of _mango juice_ , of all things. Dean knew Bobby indulged Cas in his weird love of all exotic fruit juices, but now it was just getting ridiculous.

After breakfast, Dean had gone in for a quick shower—Cas’s slightly spiky hair told him that he’d taken care of his own while Dean was still asleep—and when he’d emerged, he’d suggested a hike in the mountains. There were nature trails all over, so he figured Cas would love to check out a few, so long as he was feeling up to it. Predictably, Cas had lit up like a Christmas tree at the suggestion, and so they’d not wasted any time and hit the road towards Smoky Mountain National Park immediately.

Well, even though he really didn’t expect to, Dean found himself kind of getting into things. He personally was more of a Rocky Mountain man, but he had to admit, the Little Smokies here weren’t bad at all—smaller and less rugged, maybe, but still nice to look at. And the fall leaves—yeah, they were pretty damn spectacular. However, more than once he’d had to stop because Cas had hit a break in the trees and would just sit there, staring rapturously out at the valleys spread out before them. After the fourth time, Dean finally decided he’d had enough—since he was actually enjoying the hiking part, he was getting was sick and tired of sitting around and staring at the same stuff. So, when they came across the next big break in the trees, one with a nice big boulder where Cas could perch, and the view was admittedly nice, Dean had just told him to sit there while he went further up. Cas had complied with all speed, settling down on the rock with his legs crossed like some kind of Buddhist monk (which was stupid when yuppies did it, but when it was an angel was just hilarious) and just staring vacantly out at the landscape.

That was precisely where Dean had found him almost an hour and a half later. He hadn’t moved, and his expression hadn’t changed much either. He’d hopped down readily enough, and they’d trekked back down to the car at a leisurely pace with minimal delays from Cas, but delays all the same because it apparently didn’t matter that he’d already seen it once—he had to stop and be stunned _every_ time he saw the landscape, the idiot. But Dean knew from experience that it was best to just let him do it—not like he was hurtin’ anything, anyway.

Down at the bottom of the trail was another heading off in the opposite direction that Cas had gazed longingly at, but it had been time for lunch and Dean’s good will was wearing a bit thin. Cas’s suggestion of the roadside barbeque place they’d passed on their way to the trails seemed like a good one, and one bite of the messy pulled pork sandwich Dean ordered proved that yes, it most assuredly was. He did so many jobs in the north and Midwest these days that he sometimes forgot just how fantastic good southern barbeque could be. Cas didn’t seem to mind it either, enjoying his brisket and the potato wedges, sweet baked beans, and corn on the cob they had as sides. Dean had made lunch an uncomplicated affair, just eating it sitting out by the car and drinking beers from the cooler, and topping it off with a few candy bars from his traveling stash. Once his belly was full, he was feeling expansive again, so they’d loaded up in the car (Cas had to use the side mirror to floss for a good five minutes) and had gone right back out to the park so Cas could take that other trail. Dean stayed with him and didn’t just leave him tied to a tree this time, though—he didn’t want this hike to be too long because he didn’t want Cas traipsing around like a gazelle. He didn’t need to be doing that.

Granted, the sun set earlier this late in the year, but by the time it was starting to brush the tops of the trees, they’d been out climbing around the mountains for most of the day, and Dean had just wanted to go back to their room for a nap. Cas had agreed, and when they arrived back at the motel and kicked off their shoes, Dean had just rolled his eyes when Cas had sighed happily when Dean pulled him down into bed next to him. No nonsense, though—he did mean it when he said he wanted a nap.

Dean slowly woke up from said nap almost three hours later in the exact same position he’d fallen asleep—one arm low around Cas’s waist, spooning up against him. Cas still had his fingers laced through Dean’s, which was annoying. After raising up a little to look at the clock and see that it was time for dinner, he’d blinked away the last vestiges of sleep before making Cas get up so they could go rustle up some grub. (He found himself mildly irritated that he’d been unable to resist nibbling a little at the soft spot right behind Cas’s ear as he’d pushed himself out of bed.)

Cas had been pleased when Dean pulled up in front of the Afghani restaurant in the square where it was tucked away amongst the more prominent tourist trap-type restaurants; while it wasn’t really Dean’s thing, he could admit that those lamb meatballs they served were really awesome. Cas was a pig, of course, like he always was when it came to Italian and Indian and all that weird ethnic crap he ate, greedily scarfing down everything Dean threw at him (including Dean’s serving of baklava that came with the buffet, on top of his own). It was full dark by the time they were done, so they just went back to the room. Dean had swung by a Dairy Queen on the way back to get himself a real man’s dessert in the form of a Peanut Buster Parfait—and he made it a point to not offer Cas any because he really didn’t need a _third_ dessert.

All in all, he’d call it an awesome day—except for Cas’s fussing that they please hurry back to the hotel so he could get some cold water and soap on his shirt. God, Cas was such a woman sometimes. So what if he got tomato sauce on his shirt? It wasn’t like it was blood—he could understand his insistence that they get home so he could scrub it if it was something like that, but it was _tomato sauce_. It was his own damn fault for shoveling it in so fast that he splattered it on himself in the first place anyway.

“Dude, it’s not the end of the world,” Dean groused as he pulled into their parking space in front of their room. “It’s not your only shirt.”

“It is a light-colored shirt, Dean,” Cas replied, sounding snippy now. “And just because I have other shirts doesn’t mean I’m going to let this one get ruined.”

“See, that’s why you should wear dark clothes, like I do,” Dean replied, cutting the engine. “Then you wouldn’t have that problem.”

“Dark clothes stain too, Dean,” Cas said, swinging his door open and heaving himself out of the car.

“Oh, really?” Dean said over the doors slamming shut. “Why don’t my clothes have stains, huh? I get crap on my shirts—why don’t they ever leave any traces? All it takes is a few rounds in the regular laundry and they vanish.”

“A few rounds of laundry that I do—after I spot-treat them,” Cas said, looking very pointedly at Dean as he dug around in his pocket for the keys.

Dean paused, glaring up at Cas and his smug little look, before muttering, “Eat me,” and getting the door unlocked so Miss Prissy Pants could take care of his damn shirt.

He tossed the keys on the table after he did his usual security sweep, shutting and locking the door after making sure the “Do Not Disturb” sign was firmly in place, while Cas just slipped out of his shoes before wandering over to the sink. After he tugged the curtains tightly closed, he shrugged out of his jacket and ambled by Cas and into the bathroom, shaking his head as Cas scrutinized the pale orange splatter on his shirt.

Cas really was an idiot, he thought idly as he pissed.

Well, idiot or no, as always, Dean was just gonna let him have his compulsions. It was way too much trouble to try and break him of ‘em—they had all figured that out. So he flushed and then wandered back out, swinging the door open, and there was Cas, holding his shirt under the running water from the sink, dabbing at the spot with far more seriousness than it really deserved, his pale torso exposed—

“Fucking _Christ_!”

Cas started, straightening up rapidly and blinking at him, but Dean barely noticed—in fact, he was barely aware that he’d said anything first place as everything he thought he’d already gotten over and shoved deep down came rushing back in all at once.

A tiny part of him insisted he was being stupid. The doctors had told him that there would be some pretty bad scarring, and that it might be permanent—only so much their surgery could do. He’d seen Cas all bandaged up like the mummy for weeks afterwards. Hell, he’d seen him when it had happened—he’d been the one to carry Cas into the car to get him to the hospital, blood all over him, those timbers sticking out of his back. He’d _known_ , goddammit.

But it didn’t matter. He hadn’t _seen_ it—hadn’t seen the _results_. Sure, he helped him change clothes and stuff when he was still in his cast and everything, but he’d been so hands-off with Cas since he’d gotten his bandages off, only ducking in to tell him goodnight (and maybe kiss him a little), that he hadn’t seen him shirtless until now.

Hadn’t seen that _horrible_ mess of scar tissue, knotting all over his shoulder, stretching all the way down nearly to his waist, marring almost the entire right side of his back—

Dean had his hand out before he even knew what he was doing, reaching over and turning Cas to the side so he could see it, really look at it, and then his other hand was on it—Jesus _God_ , it felt so _horrible_ , how was it that it felt worse than it looked?!

“Dean?”

Cas’s concerned voice snapped him out of it, and he quickly dropped his hands and coughed, stepping backwards, forcing himself to tear his eyes away from his back. “I just—” He waved a vague hand at him. “Your back, is all. It, uh—”

“Oh.” Cas glanced down at his back over his shoulder, and Dean was appalled to see how unconcerned he looked. “The doctors said there would be—”

“I know what the doctors said,” Dean cut him off irritably. “I was there. I just…haven’t seen it, is all.”

“It’s gotten better,” Cas said matter-of-factly as he turned back towards the sink, and Dean didn’t believe that for a minute—Cas was stupid and was obviously refusing to see just how bad this was. How bad it— _could_ have been—

Dean’s chest was painfully tight, staring at that ugly knotted skin. He felt like a complete puss—he’d seen so much worse in his time, why was this making him feel so—they was just _scars_ , and they would eventually fade some, they wouldn’t always be this bad—but they were fucking _reminders_ —reminders of just what had happened, of what Cas had done and that he’d—had almost—

Once more, Dean didn’t seem to be in control of himself. He just reached out, grabbed Cas by the arm and pulled him toward him, trying not to be rough or tight but just unable to help it, and then wrapped his arms tight around him, gritting his teeth and staring fiercely at the wall over Cas’s shoulder. Cas looked up again in surprise as he stumbled toward Dean, and then grunted a little when Dean grabbed him and squeezed him, and for a second, the moron just stood there. But eventually, Cas’s arms did encircle him too. Dean’s breathing got a little harder as his own grip on Cas tightened, and he squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his head down onto Cas’s shoulder.

“You dumb son of a bitch,” he muttered thickly, feeling the puckered skin beneath his hands, and he already missed the smooth back that he’d loved to stroke in bed.

Cas was motionless for a long moment, but then Dean felt him relax, felt his hands start moving in soothing little circles on his back—the same way Dean had always done to him. “I’m all right, Dean,” he said quietly.

Dean scowled. _Screw you—don’t try all this sappy shit on me, and besides, you suck at comfort._ And he didn’t need _comfort_ anyway. Anybody would be shocked at seeing…well, _that_ , and being reminded that the stupid angel had gone and _mutilated_ himself for—because—

_Goddammit._

Dean pulled back, and the slide of his cheek against Cas’s got Cas moving as well, but it was entirely intentional—he wanted Cas to do that because that meant he could kiss him. He got the one arm away from the scars, reaching up instead to slide his fingers gently along the back of Cas’s neck while his other hand slipped down to rest on his waist. He kept it shallow and soft, but Cas was happy with that, his arms tightening around Dean as he leaned into it. He shifted a little so he could stroke Cas’s cheek with his thumb, and he was annoyed when his heart constricted a little when he felt Cas’s hand wrap gently around his wrist, pressing his thumb on one of his favorite spots. Unable to help it, Dean kissed him again, harder, keeping his eyes shut.

 _You dumb son of a_ bitch _. You_ stupid _moron, going and doing—doing_ that _. You—god_ dammit _, Cas—don’t you ever,_ ever _—_

He was kissing him again, and he was fully aware that now he was clinging to him while he did it, but fuck it, he didn’t care. Cas clung to him all the time, why the hell couldn’t Dean do it once in a while? Cas was moving backwards, tugging Dean along with him with small steps, and Dean realized that he was trying to back them up to the wall where they could lean properly. No, he wasn’t going to press Cas’s back against the wall—absolutely not. But the leaning part sounded fine, so just before they got there he turned them, letting the momentum gently carry him backwards instead, and when his own back bumped a little against the flat surface, he stopped, curling his arms more firmly around Cas, one hand at the small of his back, refusing to flinch away every time his fingers encountered a bump or line that wasn’t there six months ago.

Cas had just looped his arms around Dean’s neck, pressing his entire body up against his, which left Dean free to bury his own face against Cas’s throat, his mouth right against his steady pulse, and he couldn’t help it—he just pressed his lips against it, not really kissing it, but just _feeling_ it. He felt like a total dipshit, but he didn’t care.

He wasn’t sure how long he sat like that, but Cas finally was the one to move, unhooking one arm and sliding his hand down Dean’s chest, and once again Dean’s throat closed up and he couldn’t talk when that warm, familiar palm pressed right up against his ribs. Cas pulled his head away, bumping Dean’s forehead with his own, his mouth right there, brushing Dean’s, but they weren’t really kissing—just sitting there, still and quiet, Cas stroking his ribs through his shirt, Dean reaching up to cup Cas’s cheek, his fingers sliding downward and seeking out Cas’s pulse of their own accord. Damn things.

“I _am_ all right, Dean,” Cas whispered again, and Dean would’ve opened his eyes and glared at him, but he wasn’t gonna let Cas ruin whatever mood this was for him. Instead, he just closed the distance and kissed him once more, letting the one kiss become several—or maybe it was just one that he didn’t wanna stop. Who cared?

The hand on his heart vanished briefly, but Dean stopped kissing him for a minute when he felt it trying to creep up under his shirt. Dammit—he—he didn’t want to stop him, because he really did want to—want to _feel_ him there, _touching_ him, but—Cas didn’t need to—be getting _ideas_ or something—

In the end, Cas really didn’t do anything; just his one hand got up under there, making Dean’s shirt ride up as it went, of course, but he didn’t seem to be trying to strip him (yet). Just his burning hand, right there on his heartbeat, and _Jesus Christ_ , Dean felt like such a pussy—why the hell wouldn’t that lump in his throat go away?! This wasn’t anything—anything different!

 _Except how it is._ He couldn’t stop the thought, because he’d felt…felt those scars rub against his arm…and he couldn’t help but tense up because he wanted to just grab Cas and squeeze him until he couldn’t breathe, but he wouldn’t do that because—

“ _Dean._ ”

 _Goddammit, Cas_ —why did he want his attention now? He forced his eyes open anyway, and there he was, inches away from his own face, his own blue eyes piercing and unblinking. Dean swallowed hard when Cas’s hand pressed a little harder against his chest as Cas held his gaze, and Cas just breathed the words one more time right against his lips: “I’m all right.”

Dean didn’t even have the wherewithal to tell him to shut up ‘cause he’d heard him the first time, and _he’d_ be the judge of whether or not Cas was all right, thank you, because Dean wasn’t the idiot here. All he could do was stare back for a few moments, and only when Cas closed his eyes to lean in for more kissing was that particular spell broken. It was also broken because he could feel that Cas’s hands had moved, both of them down near his waist gripping the hem of his shirt; and he wasn’t tugging upwards or anything, wasn’t being insistent, but it was pretty clear what Cas wanted to do, and…Dean _did_ want to feel Cas up against him like that, all slim and warm, and the scars weren’t on his front, but—

But again, he did nothing, just stayed still as he felt his shirt slowly start sliding up, the backs of Cas’s fingers dragging up along his skin as he did. The pace was snail-worthy—Cas was obviously just waiting for Dean to stop him. But he didn’t, and when the fabric was finally bunched up under his arms, Dean raised them up and let Cas just slide it off of him. He didn’t throw it; he just let it fall to the ground from his fingers before he slid his arms around Dean’s shoulders again, still slow and calm, and Dean couldn’t help but let out a tiny, shaky sigh when Cas was all up against him again, warm, soft, here, _alive_ —

Neither of them were moving. They just sat there, arms around each other, Dean with his eyes tightly closed, resting his head against Cas’s shoulder. This was stupid—the whole thing was stupid. _Dean_ was being stupid—but stupid or no, Dean refused to move. Couldn’t, really—it didn’t matter that it was stupid, that he _knew_ it was stupid, he just wanted Cas _here_ , right _here_ , where he had him, and he didn’t want him to go anywhere. And that was stupid too. And Cas was stupid for making him want it.

Dean really could’ve sat like this for at least an hour, just listening to Cas breathe and holding his warm body in his arms. But no, if Dean was enjoying something, Cas always made it a point to put a stop to that, because God forbid Dean get to do what he wanted to do. So he only had a few minutes to enjoy things before Cas heaved a little sigh, pulling back as he did. Dean lifted his head as he felt Cas’s hands on his shoulders, and when he opened his eyes, Cas was just staring at him, his expression intent yet peaceful. He let his hands drop, sliding them down Dean’s arms, taking a step back as he did and making Dean unlock them for him. He only stopped moving when his fingers were wrapped around Dean’s wrists, and then he just stood there, staring at him with that _look_ , practically holding Dean’s hands while he did it, and that was all just too much but Dean couldn’t get his throat working to tell him to cut it out.

So of course Cas would take advantage of it, slowly moving across the room towards the closest bed. He wanted to say something to tell him this wasn’t what he was asking for or to yell at Cas for dragging him around, but the words weren’t coming. He just let Cas lead him, because he wouldn’t let go of his hands, his grip gentle but firm, and he watched as Cas sank down on the edge of the bed, just sitting there staring up at him, his thumbs stroking the insides of Dean’s wrists. He wasn’t tugging him or trying to yank him down—he just was _looking_ at him. Dammit, he wasn’t even looking _expectant_ , like Dean was supposed to be trying to throw down some moves. He was just still and silent…

 _You’re a bastard_ , he thought to himself as he slowly eased down, his knee sinking into the mattress as Cas inched backwards onto the bed so he could lay down fully and take Dean with him.

There was no denying it—he loved having Cas all stretched out beneath him. Hell, he didn’t even care he had his boots on. He could take those off later; he was too busy feeling every warm inch of the halo underneath him, finally letting himself get his hands on something other than his back, reaching down to touch his soft belly. While he was fine with their legs getting all tangled up like they were, he made sure to keep himself propped up on at least one elbow—he was not gonna mash Cas into the mattress. He just—not when he was—he just wouldn’t do it, was all. One of Cas’s hands was stroking through his hair while the other just petted his shoulder, and he didn’t do anything to try and ramp things up, just returning Dean’s soft kisses. He just seemed pretty happy to be doing this. Well, fine. They’d just keep doing this. He was even okay with the way Cas’s thigh was rubbing his hip, which made Dean settle not quite between his legs, but close enough.

Jesus, he felt so ridiculous; he hated how he was touching Cas like he was made of glass or something, ‘cause he _wasn’t_. But apparently that didn’t matter—he kept everything feather-light, even his kisses against Cas’s throat. This was slower and softer than last friggin’ night, for crying out loud…

_Dude—why do you care?_

_‘Cause_ , he answered stubbornly, even as he very tentatively slipped his tongue out to lick at Cas’s lower lip, but not deepening it as much as he usually did when Cas opened his mouth for him.

He wasn’t really trying to tease Cas at the moment—or really even to… _please_ him, either—he just wanted to _feel_ him. He wanted to touch every bit of bare flesh that he could, because it was all soft and it was all warm and it was all alive, and…and it was _Cas_ , _his_ Cas, and he—he just—

“Cas,” he murmured against the corner of his mouth before pressing a soft kiss there.

Cas’s grip on him tightened a fraction, and he heard and felt it on his exhale, “Dean…”

His chest hitched just a tiny bit, and then he’d curled his arms under Cas— _gently_ —and was rolling them over, keeping it slow and keeping Cas up against him because he didn’t want him to go anywhere—he didn’t want him to _leave_. Cas was wriggling a little, trying to get comfortable, and it wasn’t long until Dean was on his back with Cas’s legs on either side of his hips, and Dean reached up and cupped his face, stroking his cheekbones with his thumbs before just kissing him, over and over.

Cas let him for a little bit, just staying where he was, but he didn’t stay there forever—soon enough he moved again, kissing Dean’s cheek, then his jaw, and Dean couldn’t help but shiver when Cas kissed what seemed like every sensitive part of his neck he had (and there were quite a few, and of course Cas knew every one of them). He didn’t bite down or suck on anything, but occasionally Dean felt the wet rasp of his tongue, and that was nice. And he didn’t try to go any lower, which was also nice because that would mean he couldn’t keep his arms where they were all wrapped around his back (and he _refused_ to flinch at all at the rough feel of his skin—this was how it was gonna be from now on, so he was just gonna have to get used to it) and couldn’t keep Cas _here_ , all up against him. God, he felt like such a sissy. _Screw it_ , he thought again, tugging Cas back up so he could get his mouth back on his.

He hesitated, but after a little deliberation, he brought one hand around, brushing across the bottom of Cas’s ribs (being particularly kind and _not_ digging his fingers in just to make him squirm), and instead just walking them up to find what he wanted to feel—there.

Just that soft, steady beat, right there against his palm. Still there. Still beating. He refused to acknowledge any part of himself that was calling this stupid—he’d do it if he wanted to, and he _wanted_ to. Besides, didn’t it always make Cas happy?

Hell yes, it did. Cas leaned a little against his hand, and as he suddenly kissed Dean harder—not frantic, but definitely harder—Dean felt one of Cas’s hands get between them even as the other groped up and wrapped tight around Dean’s, holding him where he was, and Dean opened his eyes when Cas stopped kissing him long enough to just breathe against his lips because Cas’s hand was on him too, now, right against his breastbone, and _Jesus_ , that _look_ —no, no, he couldn’t take this, he could _not_ take this, he was gonna put an end to the faint stinging he felt starting up in the corners of his eyes _right friggin’ now_ —

He got his arms tight around Cas, forgetting his previous hesitance for a moment and mashing him against him and kissing him hard—“Cas…” He hadn’t meant to choke that out, and so was mildly annoyed that his voice cracked a little when he did it, but Cas didn’t notice. Or maybe he did, but just was pretending he hadn’t heard it. Either way, Dean was being kissed again and he really, really didn’t want it to let up any time soon.

Well, it was going to have to, because this angle was awkward. He kept trying to lean up to meet Cas, and Cas kept trying to hold him up, but the easiest way to do all of this would just be to get something behind him, and the quickest way to get it was to scoot backwards and lean against the headboard—and Dean liked that option, because it meant less time he’d have to let go of Cas. And he didn’t _want_ to let go of Cas, so screw feeling like a pussy, he’d do what he fucking _wanted_. There was nobody here to fucking see it, goddammit! 

So, dropping his arms for a moment, he braced himself on the mattress and started trying to scoot backwards, hoping Cas would help him out. He did, and raised up on his knees so Dean could ease back and actually sit up and lean against the mounted headboard behind them, and then Cas was right back on top of him, pretty much sitting on his lap, his butt all snug against his hips and his hands against the headboard. Dean got his arms looped around him in a hurry, dragging him back up against him, and Cas’s arms slid across his shoulders, the fingers of one hand getting in his hair, and—fuck. He couldn’t help it. He’d wanted to reach up and maybe pull him down for another kiss, but no, that didn’t happen. Instead, he just tightened his grip and pressed his mouth against Cas’s sternum before turning his head, pressing his face up against Cas’s hot chest—

And he could hear it. Steady, unhurried, and _there_.

With a slightly shaky sigh, he settled more firmly against the headboard, just keeping Cas where he was.

Dean knew hearts and heartbeats meant something else entirely to Cas. Granted, he didn’t know _what_ , but he knew he probably didn’t _want_ to know what. Cas was nuts that way and Dean was pretty sure that if he ever tried to just sit down and explain his weird fixation, Dean would wind up either confused, angry, or supremely uncomfortable—because Cas liked doing that to him. But he did understand one thing: he knew that Cas, when he’d been large and in charge and a genuine angel, just…hadn’t had one. Anna had explained it first, way back when, about what angels were and weren’t, and then later Cas had too in more concrete terms—whenever an angel zipped down and possessed whatever poor schmuck it went for, every single vital function just… _quit._ And creepily, Sam had been able to verify that one from experience. There was just…nothing.

For a moment, Dean wondered what _this_ would be like if Cas wasn’t human right now, but as he was before—how Cas had all the time _wished_ he was back in those first couple of years he was stuck powerless. And, if Dean were to be perfectly honest, there had been some times before he’d gotten used to him as effectively human that he’d…wished it, too, if only for the muscle and easy favors—and so he wouldn’t have to be so… _confused_ about things. But now…

He’d be… _hard._ He’d touched Cas before—not like _this_ , God, no—but he’d helped him up, dragged him to a bed when he’d passed out, and even put an arm around his shoulders a few times. And he’d just been _hard_. Like he’d been hollowed out and refilled with concrete or something—punching him in the face was certainly evidence to support _that_ theory. And he wouldn’t be hot like this—hell, he wouldn’t even be warm. Cas had never radiated heat as an angel. He’d almost seemed genuinely chilly sometimes, particularly when he’d been at full capacity. There wouldn’t be any of those scars, of course—no, not a single scar or blemish or anything would be on him because shit like that was for losers who couldn’t just instantly heal themselves in less than a second. And no heartbeat—none. Dean wouldn’t hear it right now, and wouldn’t have ever felt it beat steady when they were just resting together or feel it thumping hard and out of control when they fooled around. He wouldn’t be dead, granted—but he sure as hell wouldn’t really be _alive_ , either. He’d just…he’d be an angel. Hard, cold, and remote. _Not human._

Dean slowly splayed his hand where it rested on Cas’s back, feeling every single line and imperfection beneath his fingers, some of them that would probably be there for the rest of his life because he was a moron. He felt his soft stomach up against his own, one that wouldn’t _be_ that soft if he’d just lay off the Italian food. He felt the heat radiating off of him as it always did—heat Dean complained about as often as not because goddamn, he could run an Eskimo out of an igloo and onto the tundra, he was so friggin’ hot, to say nothing of Dean when he was in bed with him and trying to sleep.

And he heard his heartbeat. Because he was human. And he was _alive_.

Dean suddenly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly. Oh, what the _fuck_ was this? Here he was, sitting here fucking _clinging_ to Cas like some huge girl, all while they were in bed and half-dressed and with Cas in his fucking lap. And goddammit, he still had his shoes on. To hell with that.

Cas said he was okay. Well… _fine._ They could…maybe they’d…

They were gonna go _slow_ , dammit.

Dean shook himself a little, because Cas was just sitting there petting his hair and leaning on the top of his head and cradling him like some kind of Precious Moments figurine and that really wasn’t acceptable. Cas sat up at the motion, and Dean looked up to see that Cas’s blue eyes were suspiciously bright as he gazed peacefully down at him. 

Resisting the urge to scowl (or roll his eyes), he finally unlocked his arms and got his hands on Cas’s hips, but rather than push him away, he just tugged Cas more securely against his own hips. Cas pushed up a little to meet him, rubbing in a way that wasn’t serious business or anything, but it definitely teased Dean a bit and, judging by little noise that Cas just made, it did the same thing to him. Cas dragged his hands across where they’d come to rest on Dean’s shoulders and up his neck, cupping his chin and tilting his face up more so he could kiss him, and while it was just as slow and even as it’d been all night, Cas’s tongue was already out and asking if Dean’s could come out and play. He obliged Cas, but only for a few seconds—because the shoes had to go.

Well, they could go after he reached back and gently squeezed Cas’s butt with both hands, pushing his hips forward again—not hard, but enough. And nobody could blame him for that; Cas’s ass was right there, so what else was he supposed to do with that? He _did_ roll his eyes this time when Cas _hmmed_ softly, grinding down a bit in response to Dean’s motions, though. Of course that would happen, because Cas was that way. Hell, he’d been the one to drag him over into bed in the first place. Dean’d been just fine with cuddling—and _so what_ if he had—but no, Cas had to have more ‘cause he was greedy.

He let go of Cas, making it clear that he wanted him to get off. Cas got his message, sighing and reluctantly swinging his leg over so Dean could get out from under him. After he rocked back on his knees, Dean couldn’t resist reaching up and getting a hand behind Cas’s neck, pulling him forward for one more brief kiss, and then he finally reached down and started untying his shoes, because he really didn’t want those on if he was…well, gonna do anything. If you got into things, when it came time for the pants to come off, shoes got in the way and killed the mood. He’d had it happen before—including once with Cas. Except that time, it had been only _his_ mood had been killed—Cas hadn’t been deterred in the least. Dork.

After getting both his shoes and his socks off, Dean settled back into bed and turned so he could face Cas, reaching out and carefully pushing him back, making it clear who was gonna be where this time. Cas just went with it—of course, because was there anything Dean did that he _didn’t_ go with?—scooting back to get comfy in the pillows as Dean crawled on top of him (careful to hold his weight up, though) and from there, Dean opened with a nice, deep kiss and decided that was a good place to start.

Dean had a knee between Cas’s thighs, but Cas had already wiggled around so he could return the favor. Dean knew that if he started moving, Cas would go at him, too, and he just wasn’t ready for that. So instead, he caught Cas’s lower lip between his teeth, tugging it a tad, and then kissed his jaw, skimming his hands down Cas’s torso to rest on his waist as he started making his way down, because he wasn’t necessarily out to make Cas go all squirmy—he just wanted to taste as much soft skin as he could right now.

Cas got squirmy anyway. He never was one for just lying back and enjoying things; oh no, he had to wiggle and paw at Dean and try and mess up his concentration. Well, good luck—it didn’t matter that Cas had been doing stuff like this with him for ten years (sweet Lord, _seriously_?!), Dean still had a _lot_ more over him. Wasn’t happening. So he just kept his grip on Cas’s hips firm, holding him down so he couldn’t start trying to hump him or something. Cas could wiggle around all he wanted to, but he couldn’t go that far. Dean wasn’t ready for it yet; it had been months since he’d done anything with Cas, but now Cas was here underneath him, and Dean had _time_ —and he was gonna _take_ it.

He traced all the familiar patterns on his scrawny chest he’d been following for years. He kissed all the same spots he always did. It wasn’t like what they did was monotonous, but they didn’t exactly have new things to explore, and at some point they’d both settled into a comfortable routine of things they did—but, he realized, he’d never gotten outright _tired_ of doing all the same things with Cas. Somehow, it was…always nice. Always good. Okay, it wasn’t _always_ good, because Cas loved to screw things up from time to time, but that wasn’t the point. After ten years, he still enjoyed everything when it was like _this_. Still enjoyed the way Cas’s chest rose and fell against his mouth as he kissed his sternum, still enjoyed the way Cas twitched and his fingers convulsed in his hair when Dean flicked his tongue over his nipples, still enjoyed the way Cas would moan softly when Dean nibbled right above his navel. It was _all_ good.

He spent a good long while down there because he could—but it did have its downsides. As he crawled back up to get his chest back up against Cas’s because he’d really gone for way too long without that, he let go of Cas’s hips, and of course the little peckerwood immediately took advantage of it, writhing up against his knee and thigh—and Dean could feel that he was already getting hard. Dammit, he knew he was good, but Cas was just pathetic. Seriously. You’d think Dean had never kissed him all over his chest before. A little grudgingly, as he bumped Cas’s chin with his forehead so he could kiss his neck, he reached between them, going for the button of Cas’s jeans. Cas was lucky Dean was merciful.

Once he got his jeans undone so Cas’s half-hard prick would no longer be pinned in like that, Dean reached up and stroked his hands down Cas’s cheeks and neck, finally pushing his knee up to nudge against Cas’s crotch. Cas grunted a little, kissing Dean harder every time he rubbed against him and moving his hips to rub back, and it wasn’t long before he had Cas pretty much humping his leg. It wasn’t intense or wild or anything, but he was still definitely doing it—and he knew because Cas humped Dean’s leg _a lot_. To say nothing of his rubbing one or two out on his thigh in the early days. _Idiot_ , Dean thought idly, stroking the thigh that was rubbing his hip.

On impulse, he stopped stroking and got a good grip on Cas’s leg, hitching it up higher around his hip, and then leaned to the side, taking Cas with him. Over they went, and he was back to being stretched out beneath him with Cas straddling his hips, and he was pretty fine with that. He still knew what it looked like, of course—the picture of a dude sitting on you like that wasn’t one you forgot easily—but it’d been a while since he’d really cared about shit like that. And he _especially_ didn’t really care right now, because Cas wasn’t just sitting up there and petting him like he’d done earlier—no, now he was grinding his butt down against Dean and rubbing on him through his jeans, and Dean really had to concentrate to make sure he didn’t start getting hard in a hurry; because his jeans were still zipped and he couldn’t exactly _un_ zip them with Cas sitting on him.

Dean never got tired of kissing Cas all over, nor did he get tired of feeling Cas do the same thing back. Cas had long since not only memorized every single spot that made Dean twitch, but also the exact things he should _do_ to said spots that would make him twitch the hardest. He knew precisely where to bite, suck, lick, and nibble, and Dean knew it was coming almost every time, but he still couldn’t help it. It sometimes irritated him. Cas was good. _Way_ too good, and he had no right to be. Dean was good because of years of dedication and hard work and a wide range of knowledge and experience. Where the hell did Cas get off acting like such an expert? He cheated, that’s what—he’d just spent all of his time on _Dean_. So it didn’t count. Dean was still the master.

But Cas was still good (even though Dean was better), and so that meant that despite his best efforts to keep things slow and easy, Dean was still being reduced to mildly uncomfortable squirming. His damn jeans were getting tight, and Cas was a clueless jerk who wouldn’t help him out. No, he was way too busy giving him a hickey on his stomach while he teased both of Dean’s nipples with his thumbs. Dean got his fingers in Cas’s hair, tugging on him a little, and Cas got the signal, sitting up and crawling back up. But then, when Dean went for his zipper, the idiot went and ruined Dean’s plans , because Cas caught Dean’s hand in his own, lacing his fingers through Dean’s and pinning his hand back up by his head as he leaned back down to kiss him, rolling his hips against Dean’s as he did. Of course, when he did that, Dean got sidetracked from trying to reach his zipper and instead gripped Cas’s hip and then slid around to grab his butt to help put more pressure on, because it felt good, but that really didn’t make his own situation get any better.

 _Finally_ Cas seemed to become aware of the fact that Dean’s prick was getting bent, but he didn’t let Dean go, and Dean wasn’t in much of a hurry to let go of Cas’s ass. So Cas sat up a bit, his free hand sliding down over Dean’s chest and down his stomach as he wriggled his ass down until he was sitting on Dean’s thighs. After briefly squeezing the front of Dean’s pants in a way that made Dean let out a thick, involuntary grunt, he finally popped open the button on Dean's jeans and slowly eased the zipper down. Dean didn’t bother trying to hide his sigh of relief—Jesus, that was better.

Cas trying to reach in his pants was _not_ better. Dammit, _no_. Just because he was up didn’t mean he wanted to just dive in yet. More importantly, he was not gonna sit back like this and let Cas work him over. Not today. He twisted his hand free of Cas’s and reached up with both, getting him by the shoulders, one smooth and one rough, and pulled him back down, forcing Cas to curl his arms underneath Dean’s own shoulders as he kissed him—harder this time, and finally showing that yes, he meant business. Dean had his own arms hooked up under Cas’s, gripping his shoulders to hold him right where he was and feeling his scars. His hold on Cas tightened and he wanted Cas just up against him, every bit of him, because he just wanted to feel him—wanted to feel him _here_ , safe, and _alive_.

Dean wasn’t necessarily on his back anymore—Cas had tilted to the side, like he was trying to get Dean back on top of him, but Dean didn’t want to do that. He figured the compromise was fine, them on their sides, Cas’s leg still hooked up over his own. They both pretty much had access to everything like this.

And Cas was already trying to paw at him again, his hand creeping down Dean’s stomach. Did Cas seriously think he was sneaking up on him or being clever or something? He did that all the time. It wasn’t like Dean hadn’t figured him out a long time ago.

But, if Dean was gonna be honest with himself, he was already pretty hard. And they’d both been rubbing against each other before, so he—

Before Cas could get his hands on Dean, Dean decided once more that he could agree on a compromise—so he reached forward with one hand and slipped his fingers under the waistband of Cas’s shorts _first_. So there.

Cas sighed, that usual sigh of pure contentment and “oh, Dean, everything you do is amazing” as Dean gently gripped his cock, and of course he was completely stiff. Cas had a problem, man—didn’t matter how little they’d been doing, if Dean made it clear they might be doing a little fooling around, he’d just immediately get hard, no matter how long it took to get to the action. Moron. But he didn’t have much time to contemplate that, because Cas was returning the favor, getting under the elastic at his waist, and Dean’s eyes closed when he felt that hot grip around his dick. But he made himself open his eyes again, because he didn’t just want to feel Cas—he wanted to _see_ him.

Cas was staring right back as they both started moving their hands, Cas pretty much matching whatever Dean did exactly—he _always_ did that, and Dean would be lying to himself if he didn’t admit that it drove him wild. Dean gave a long, slow stroke all the way from the base of his cock to the tip; Cas did it back to him. Dean rubbed soft and easy circles at the head, Cas did it back to him. Dean reached down to gently grip Cas’s balls; Cas did it back to him. And _God_ , it was awesome, and of course it quickly got Dean as hard as Cas already was.

Fuck—he couldn’t stand it anymore. He used the arm he had around Cas’s shoulders to pull him forward so he could kiss him, immediately pushing his tongue past Cas’s lips and being eagerly met halfway. He kept up his motions down south, though, feeling Cas’s hips gently thrust in time with his strokes while his own hips did the exact same thing…because _Cas_ was doing the exact same thing.

It was like a goddamn mirror when they did things like this. _Everything_ was copied, right down to keeping his hand on the back of Dean’s head, just like Dean did to him, and to the way he fucking curled his tongue against Dean’s. And he wasn’t hesitant or clumsy about it at all—no, he knew _exactly_ what Dean was gonna do right when he did it and copied him pretty much exactly every single time. Well, almost every single time—he sure as hell didn’t repeat the action when Dean slid his fingers past Cas’s sack, rubbing behind them, making Cas shiver and arch up against him and hook his leg more firmly against Dean’s legs and drag him closer. And if he valued his life, he would never, _ever_ copy that trick on Dean. And he didn’t, instead going the opposite direction—and now it was Dean’s turn to groan into Cas’s mouth when the tip of his finger pressed into the slit of Dean’s dick, rubbing the wetness there with a pressure that, if he kept that up, would make him go crazy.

As such, Dean returned to the usual to even the playing field, grabbing Cas’s cock tight and jerking like he meant it—he wasn’t aiming to get him off, but he was definitely aiming to make him stutter. He loved doing that—trying to make Cas forget what he was supposed to be doing, because that meant Dean ruled. He tore away from Cas’s mouth and pulled him close while making him tilt his head to the side, getting his lips right on Cas’s jaw and licking and sucking all the way behind his ear and then working his way down, and yep, he could feel it, Cas’s grip was definitely faltering, his breath going faster. He licked right at his pulse point and then pressed his mouth there, feeling it already starting to pound harder, and when he bit down gently on his throat, Cas jerked against him and moaned, “ _Dean_ ,” which Dean _liked_ …

But then Cas had to ruin it by sounding like he was wheezing, trying to breathe but only managing little whistling gasps, which Dean _didn’t_ like—he just…didn’t want to hear _wheezing_ right now. Not after—just not now. Jackass. Couldn’t he breathe normally?

Slowing his hand down, he suddenly became aware that he’d actually succeeded anyway—because Cas let him go. He pulled back, opening his eyes to see his handiwork, but he only got a glimpse of Cas’s bright-eyed, intense stare before he was being kissed again, and it wasn’t long before fingers were pushing at the top of his jeans, shoving them down insistently even as he just kept thrusting against Dean’s hand.

 _Oh, fine_ , Dean thought grudgingly. Of course, Cas would want to take everybody’s pants off. Cas and clothes had a very iffy relationship, after all, and sometimes Dean wondered if he didn’t want everyone else to have that same tenuous one as well. More than once, Dean had had the image of Cas very seriously trying to tell Bobby why he should just be free and go naked, because he was a moron (and more than once Dean had wanted stick an ice pick in his ear as a result). But like hell he was gonna be the only one pantless here.

He released Cas’s prick just in time for Cas to show that he wasn’t just going for no pants, oh no—his thumbs had just hooked into Dean’s shorts, and by the time Dean could reach over and show that he wanted Cas to do the same, he’d pushed them down, exposing half of Dean’s ass to the world. _Goddammit, Cas._

Keeping one hand on Cas’s hip, Dean reached up and gripped Cas’s chin, holding him still while he rolled forward against him a bit, kissing him long and slow to make it clear Cas needed to calm his ass down. The dork got a clue when Dean squished him, just a little, and he let go of Dean’s pants, preferring instead to get his fingers wrapped around Dean’s wrist and press right there on the inside, sighing against Dean’s mouth. When Dean was satisfied that he had him relaxed enough, he let him go, kissing him one more time—just a soft one—before leaning away. He’d take care of his own pants, thank you.

It would be pointless to just take off his jeans—besides, he could see that Cas was pushing everything off already, quickly kicking out of both his pants and his boxers because he was impatient and he was over-eager and he was a naked freak. So, rather than wait for Cas to try and tear his shorts off for him, he just pushed out of everything as well, letting it drop wherever off the side of the bed as Cas did the same, his clothes falling out of sight at the foot. Dean reached out and grabbed him, pulling him right back up against the pillows—and _yes_ , now he had _all_ of that hot bare skin up against his own, and he wrapped his arms around him and rolled over on his back because this was everything he wanted right now. Just this naked dude pressed up against him currently trying to stick his tongue down his throat. It was stupid, but he didn’t care—he wanted it.

Cas was rubbing his hips against Dean’s, and as a result he kept rubbing their cocks together and that felt ridiculously good. He reached down and got a handful of angel ass, squeezing hard and making Cas _hmm_ against his mouth. Cas ground against him again, making him break off their current kiss to gasp, and Cas took advantage of that so he could start macking on his neck, kissing and nibbling and licking and sucking until Dean had pretty much no choice but to let out a long, low moan. But Cas didn’t stop because once Cas got going, he had no interest in quitting. Dean knew that much. He lapped at the hollow of Dean’s throat, his hair tickling Dean’s chin, and then skimmed his way down to Dean’s ribs, kissing and rubbing all where his heart was thumping hard, even pausing for a moment to just sit and listen. But he didn’t take too long because he was—

—he was moving down, and Dean _knew_ that pattern—

_No, you get back up here!_

Heaving himself up a little, he got Cas by the upper arms and (gently) pulled him back where he was. There would be none of that nonsense. Cas didn’t—none of his oral gymnastic routines, not today. He didn’t care about Cas’s weird mania, he could just deal with it. Dean was _not_ gonna lay back and be friggin’ _serviced_ —not right now, thank you, and especially not on their first time together in six months. What the hell did Cas think he was, anyway?

Cas went with it, letting himself be all wrapped up by Dean and held. Dean squeezed his eyes shut as Cas kissed him again, because when he grabbed Cas, his hand landed right on Cas’s back, and his fingers had started tracing out the messy pattern on Cas’s shoulder, feeling the deep line cut there and all the smaller ones that branched off and connected—there were so fucking _many_ —Jesus _Christ_ , they were—

“Cas—I—” He grabbed Cas’s hair with both hands and forced his mouth right back up to his own because Cas had been trying to lick his ear and he didn’t want that right now, he just wanted _Cas_ , he just wanted to kiss him over and over and so that’s what he did, not caring how desperate it was because it was _Cas_.

The only reason he let up was because Cas couldn’t breathe. When he did, Cas pretty much lunged at his throat again, his hands everywhere, all hot and frantic and groping everything within reach. Dean’s fingers flexed against the good side of Cas’s back, arching up a bit to meet Cas’s hips bumping against his own, and—

Goddammit, he was doing it again.

He grabbed Cas again, sliding his arms up under Cas’s as he did so he _couldn’t_ shimmy down Dean’s torso and try to start sucking him off. _No, you stupid bastard!_ Jesus, was he just gonna have to outright _tell_ Cas that—that things didn’t work like that tonight? He’d already talked with him last night about things he could and could not do this trip! Why the hell would he need a second talk?

_Maybe because most of the “no sex” rules have already gone out the window._

_Shut up._

Dammit, Cas was just back on his feet after being chopped up like hamburger, so Cas could just sit here and let Dean hold him and nothing else and like it.

Unfortunately, Dean knew better—he wasn’t stupid. Cas was still petting him and had calmed down and was in fact letting himself be held, but he was all restless, despite sitting in his arms like he was. He wanted to go down on Dean, and Dean knew that he wanted it _bad_ (because he was a fucking _freak_ ). He’d start squirming again, and then he’d try to kiss his way down as a distraction. And if Dean wasn’t fooled by that (which he wouldn’t be), then Cas would eventually just skip the formalities and try to pounce on him. Cas was the king of trying to sneak up on Dean’s prick, despite Dean always knowing when he was doing it.

Dammit, it didn’t _matter_ that—that a blowjob sounded nice. Because it did, after six months without one—but seriously, when didn’t it? But it wasn’t happening! Hell, if—if anyone was gonna get one of those tonight, it’d be _Cas_. Wasn’t appealing—because _giving_ a blowjob _never_ sounded nice—but he knew it’d make Cas happy, and _that_ was all Dean wanted to do. It didn’t matter that getting to give Dean a blowjob made Cas happier than it had any right to, because that was happiness that involved a lot of work and sometimes gave Cas a sore jaw and also involved Dean just sitting back like a pasha and doing _nothing_. Not fucking _happening_. He didn’t want to just sit back like that, because he—he couldn’t do anything for _Cas_ when they were like that! He didn’t want that tonight—nothing was happening that wasn’t mutual, and with blowjobs the only real solution to that was—

_Oh. Oh God. No, no…_

No, he so did not just think that, didn’t happen, wasn’t _gonna_ happen—

No, he had. He’d thought it, and knew he had. He’d tried to cut the thought off before it completed, because _thinking_ it would give him the idea to _do_ it because that _always_ happened with shit like this, but it was too late. It was in there.

_Son. Of. A. Bitch._

Goddammit, his life wasn’t always like this. There was a time where he didn’t—didn’t suddenly get _ideas_ like the one he’d just had. And didn’t have to sit there and stew in the knowledge that he was so gonna fucking go through with whatever fucking _gay shit_ he’d just thought up, no matter how much every part of him wanted to just pretend it never even crossed his mind. However, he was long since past that happy place—he knew from experience that once the thought was there…he was gonna do it.

Cas’s wiggling had slowed down, and Dean knew why—he was all too aware of the fact that he’d gone still, his arms kinda limp where they were around him as he stared at the ceiling as he talked himself into it. There was no way Cas didn’t notice, and Dean knew he was gonna be all _concerned_ now, afraid that he’d done something wrong and would be pulling back any minute to cajole and sweet-talk him and insist he try and make it all better and there was no fucking way to make this better. No, not with what had just popped into his head. There was nothing that could make this better. At all

Oh, great. Cas was already lifting his head, moving so he could sit up on his elbows on either side of Dean, and there were his eyebrows coming together as he stared down at him. “Dean?”

Yep, he was concerned and confused and worried. _Shit._ And now Dean had to reassure him, and that meant he wouldn’t have _any_ time to build up to it, not this time. At least he’d had a full day (and a crate of whiskey) to work up the nerve to actually blow Cas the first time—no, he didn’t have that now. And he couldn’t just charge into this one. He was—aw _hell_ , he was gonna have to—have to _ask_ —

Dean cut his eyes away, swallowing hard. “You’re fine, Cas.” He said that first, because if he didn’t, Cas would start getting fussy. But he was still being concerned, and he was gonna ask what was wrong anyway, even if Dean had already told him it wasn’t him—dammit, this was gonna be so horrible, why had he _thought_ that—?!

“Are you all right?”

No, he wasn’t fucking all right! He’d just—he’d just thought _that_! And now he was about to try and ask Cas if he wanted to!

He coughed, still staring Not At Cas, finally shifting around until he’d gotten them on their sides and getting Cas off of him—things were just too much right now, and he needed—he needed to just get it together and _ask_ it, but this was ridiculous. That wasn’t something you just _asked_ about. It wasn’t like he’d never _done_ it—hell yes, he’d done it! And he loved it! But—goddammit, not with another _dude_!

_For fuck’s sake, Winchester, it’s no different than anything else—and it’s still Cas. Man up and do it._

_You shut the fuck up! “Man up” my_ ass _!_

_Perfect word-choice._

No, Sam never shut the fuck up, even when he was just in his head. Rubbing his hand over his face, Dean forced himself to look Cas in the eye—he was still worried, but he was still just idling, Dean could tell; Cas’s prick was still cheerfully poking him in the leg, and he was just waiting until he found out things were okay. Dean knew that the second he gave him a green light, he’d be off again, because that was just Cas—zero to horny. Always had been.

Dean ignored the way Cas was stroking his neck and _made_ himself talk. “Cas, do you—know when…” He couldn’t fucking get the words out. “When two people…you know…” He made a vague motion with his hand that meant absolutely nothing. “At the same time?”

Yeah, right. Like _that_ made any sense—for once, Dean couldn’t entirely blame the moron for looking more confused than Dean had seen him in a while (though he still blamed him a little). 

Dean couldn’t look at him anymore and stared at the wall, trying again. “It’s—” He stopped again, not having the slightest idea how to continue. “It’s that thing where—you know—at the same time.” He glared at Cas’s stupid blank face. “Dammit, I _know_ you’ve seen it, ‘cause you have a porn addiction,” he ground out.

“I do _not_ ,” Cas retorted, sounding vaguely offended.

Dean just rolled his eyes—yeah, right. He could deny it all he wanted to, but Dean knew better. But he didn’t have time to be amused by that because he was _trying_ to ask—

“Cas, it’s when—” He blew out a frustrated sigh and rubbed his hand over his eyes. “Look, Cas, I know you wanna go down on me, but—I want to—it’s when…when _both_ people—”

And somehow, he must’ve said the magic words, because Cas’s face lit up with understanding. “Are you referring the act of sixty-nine?” he asked.

 _Oh,_ fuck _, why did he have to put things like_ that _…_

“…yeah,” Dean managed, not looking at him and hating how he was mumbling. “I’d…if you…do you…want to?”

Dean risked a glance at his face—oh, hell yes, he wanted to. Cas looked fucking _transported_. And why shouldn’t he? Cas had a fetish for giving blowjobs, yeah, but he also went _nuts_ for receiving them, so having both going on at the same time would probably be the best thing of his life.

“Yes,” Cas replied, already sounding breathy and orgasmic, but then he stopped, gently stroking his chest and staring at Dean in the way that always _made_ Dean look back at him. “If you’re sure you want to.”

And of course he always left it up to him—that was Cas’s special little way of trying to make sure it was _all Dean’s fault_ when they started up this some new fuckery. Because he was a _bitch_.

Dean could only sit there, vaguely horrified, as he felt himself nod that yes, he was sure, and that was it, because that was _always_ it—they were gonna do this. He was gonna sixty-nine it with a fucking _guy_.

Cas had raised up on his elbow at Dean’s suggestion, but he now leaned down again so he could kiss Dean, nice and deep, and then he just pretty much jumped to his knees, waiting patiently for Dean to…what? Dean didn’t know what to do. Well, he _knew_ , but he _didn’t_. Where was he supposed to _start_ with this? If Cas was expecting instructions, he had another thing coming.

When Cas suddenly scooted down, positioning himself down towards the end of the bed and turning around to face the headboard before reaching up to tug lightly on Dean’s elbow, Dean snapped out of his unpleasant stupor, struggling to _not_ look as ridiculous as he knew he did right now. But things did not get better—oh no, they got _a lot_ worse, because he got halfway to his knees and Cas just…just _lay back_ , his fingers curling around the back of Dean’s knee like they did this all the time and it was the most normal thing in the world—goddammit, he couldn’t _do_ this—

No. He _could_. He’d fucking done everything else, for Christ’s sake! And this—this was for _Cas_. He would do it, just like he’d done everything else, and everything else was _fine_ now so this would be fucking fine too.

_Do it._

So, with steely resolve, he pushed himself all the way up and on all fours, edging sideways to get up next to him, grabbed Cas’s raised knee and to pull him a little closer to himself, and then swung his own knee up and over Cas’s head.

And all of his determination promptly vanished as he suddenly realized just what he had just done as he sat there on his hands and knees and looked down and saw Cas’s stiff prick from this brand new angle.

_Oh fuck oh fuck no I can’t do this I just fucking sat on Cas’s face this is too—_

He almost jumped when Cas’s hand immediately grabbed his dick, and he _did_ jump when he felt Cas’s mouth instantly on him, sucking gently at the head of his cock, his tongue already lapping and licking, because absolutely nothing about this had fazed him. _Nothing._

For a second, he just sat there, aware that he was shaking but unable to stop it because this was—what the fuck was he _doing_?!

And then that nasty little voice spoke up again. _How about what you’re_ not _doing?_

Fuck. _Fuck!_ Sixty-nine. Mutual. At the same time. _Get to fucking work._

Well, he certainly couldn’t do it with his eyes open. So, squeezing them shut, he groped along Cas’s inner thigh until he felt his hand bump Cas’s prick, curled his fingers around it, and charged blindly into the fray.

He almost forgot to just do his initial lick-and-pull-away because he couldn’t _concentrate_. But he remembered in time to avoid getting choked when Cas gasped and jerked beneath him because Cas _always_ did that the first time around, only this time Dean jerked back because Cas hadn’t just gasped, he’d gasped _around Dean’s prick_. But Dean just swallowed and refused to let himself hesitate, because if he did that, he’d never get started, and he was not just gonna sit there—sit like _this_ —and let Cas do all the fucking work—

A tiny voice in the back of Dean’s head insisted that it was easier to ignore the cock in his mouth because he wasn’t just hearing Cas moan in ecstasy this time—no, he was _feeling_ him moan in ecstasy this time, all around his cock, and that was pretty fucking awesome.

But it was still fucking _weird_. He’d never really done this in this _position_ before. He was used to lying back, or hell, when she’d been small and frisky enough, he’d even done it standing up once or twice—but Cas had all but dragged him into this way and it was—oh, shit, Cas’s tongue had just licked down to his sack and now he was sucking on his balls, one at a time as he always did, one hand working his cock while the other was smoothing up and down the back of his thigh before creeping up to caress his ass—

 _Focus, dammit!_ He sucked harder at Cas’s prick, sliding a hand down to grip Cas’s balls and massage them as he did, and he shuddered as Cas groaned, the sensation sending heat all through his gut and groin. He wasn’t using any finesse whatsoever—he couldn’t—really, he’d been pretty much reduced to same mess he’d been in the first time he’d ever given Cas head (the first one he _remembered_ , anyway), only able to keep it together enough to move up and down, sucking and using his hands to jerk anything his mouth couldn’t reach. But with all the noise Cas was making, you’d think he was giving him the greatest blowjob of his life.

Dean shook and couldn’t help but moan around Cas’s cock when Cas shifted his head around and was suddenly taking him _deep_ , his both hands reaching up to squeeze Dean’s ass, and it felt amazing, as it always did. Only more so, because Cas was _moaning_ while he did it, his hips rocking minutely, and Dean couldn’t help but moan too and rock his own not-so-minutely because—goddammit, Cas was _better_ at this than him and he knew it, and he was trying to focus everything he could on what was going on below his waist because it made what was going on above it all the more bearable. But how could he focus on _anything_ when Cas kept swallowing him down and _moaning_ —

He pulled his mouth off of Cas, but he kept a grip on his dick and made himself start up the little licks he favored as he used one hand to alternately work his cock and his balls so he could give his jaw and tongue a rest—and try to get a grip on _himself_ , because he was pretty sure he was going nuts. Cas, meanwhile, just kept up what he was doing, sucking all up and down Dean’s dick, reducing Dean to just panting against Cas and struggling to maintain _some_ sense of what he was doing, but it was hard—concentrating on what he was doing reminded him vividly of just _what_ he was doing, but if he concentrated on what Cas was doing too much, he’d just _stop_ what he was doing and that wasn’t acceptable, either. Why couldn’t he find a middle ground with this?! Oh, because he was Dean Winchester, that was why, and the universe liked dicking him over as much as possible.

And he’d stopped again. Not allowed. Almost snarling, he opened wide and stuck Cas’s leaking cock back in his mouth.

Despite everything, Dean was very aware that he was moaning while he worked, something he did not do while giving Cas head because Dean didn’t fucking get off on it like Cas did. But here he was, moaning while giving head like he just _loved_ it. And his moaning just kept making _Cas_ moan, so it was just one big vicious cycle that felt so awesome, but Dean still couldn’t decide if it was a good thing or not because they both had dicks in their mouths. Dean always loved it when Cas made noise when he sucked him off, so he knew Cas was loving it even more because he seemed to love pretty much _everything_ even more. But dammit, he didn’t _want_ to make noise, because this whole thing was gonna just make Cas go insane—but Dean couldn’t fucking _concentrate_ , so how was he supposed to make sure that Cas wasn’t gonna fucking come in his mouth if he couldn’t pay close enough attention, because Cas was—

Oh, _fuck_ , Cas was moving, licking his balls again, but this time he kept going, grabbing Dean’s ass with both hands once more and pulling Dean down, pulling himself _up_ , and he knew—he knew it was gonna happen before it even did…

Dean’s groan was pathetic and squeaky and he couldn’t help but shake violently as Cas licked at his asshole, eating him out again, because Cas _liked_ that, Cas loved doing it, and fuck everything, _Dean loved it when he did_ , but it was _Cas_ , and Dean was _sucking his cock_ while he did it, and Cas’s fist around Dean’s dick was pumping as he licked, harder, straining to try and—push _inside_ —

Oh God, this was too much. No, he didn’t care, first times for whatever shit they did were always short and _this was_ —he couldn’t _take_ this.

Pulling his mouth off of Cas’s prick, he sucked in a great, shuddering breath before croaking out, “ _Cas_ ,” hoping he’d get the message and _stop_ trying to tongue-fuck him, even as he struggled to move. Cas _did_ get the message, thank God, and Dean felt his head flop backwards onto the mattress as he let his dick go. Dean refused to open his eyes as he rolled away to the side—not until he was safe and on his back and Cas’s cock wasn’t right there in his face.

Once he was safely stretched out on the bed again, he scrubbed a hand across his mouth, wiping away all of the spit and—and everything else that he could feel smeared everywhere because he couldn’t fucking help that he gave messy blowjobs. The fact that he gave them at all was concession enough, thank you; he wasn’t gonna work to make them all self-contained and elaborate like Cas’s. Unfortunately, now that he wasn’t having to worry about Cas going off in his face and wasn’t being distracted by Cas’s tongue up his ass, he had time to think about what had just happened.

_Winchester, you were getting off while you were eating dick._

Goddammit.

He was aware of Cas panting next to him, but only halfway—he was way too busy trying to come to grips with the _position_ he’d just been in ten seconds ago. Trying—and not being very successful. It couldn’t have been more than a minute or two, but he’d—sweet _Jesus_ , why had he even had the _idea_ —?!

The bed shifted, and he realized that Cas was moving around next to him. Specifically, he was moving towards him. Dean looked next to him in time to see Cas roll onto his side, scooching closer to Dean, and then a warm hand touched his hip—dammit, Dean had made it clear he wasn’t gonna let Cas do that—

Yeah, Cas didn’t care. _Cas, you stupid_ bastard _, what the hell is wrong with you?!_

Dean struggled to get up on his elbows, his stomach contracting with a jerk as Cas wrapped his fingers back around Dean’s cock, but before he could open his mouth and tell Cas to knock that off, Cas had opened _his_ mouth and gotten back to business, wiping out anything Dean might have been trying to say as he started sucking again.

Dean very nearly fell right back down when Cas started that up, but he refused. No, he was gonna put a stop to this. In a minute. After a few more strokes. When Cas took his mouth off his cock, he’d drag him back up. Oh, goddammit—why did Cas have to look up at him like that, tilting his head so that he was all big eyes as he licked up and down the underside of his cock? That little bastard _knew_ Dean had been about to tell him to cut that shit out, didn't he? So he was doing his best to distract him.

And, annoyingly, it was working.

 _Oh, hell—just let him do it already, he gets off on it as much as anything._ Though if he tried to go mouth-marathon on him, Dean _would_ put a stop to it, no matter how good it felt.

But Cas seemed to know that Dean wanted everything slow and easy—he wasn’t even trying to deep-throat him. Any time he started sucking him off, he’d only go about halfway down before going back to little licks and even just running his parted lips up and down Dean’s cock. However, the angle still wasn’t what Dean was used to—not with Cas, anyway. It was hard to touch his hair and Cas couldn’t really look up at him, not without craning his neck funny. And so _what_ if Dean loved that shit? Plenty of people did. But no matter what the angle, that still left him sitting back with nothing to do, which he said he _wasn’t_ going to do, but what else _could_ he do?

_Winchester, why are you such a fucking dumbass today?_

He scowled in irritation; it wasn’t his fault that he was _distracted_. Everyone had moments of forgetfulness every now and then when they had their dick in someone’s mouth. Twisting a little, he got a handful of Cas’s ass before tugging him closer.

He easily got one hand under him and Cas sighed contentedly when Dean wrapped his fingers around his prick again. Then, ‘cause he could, he leaned forward and bit Cas’s buttcheek—not hard, but enough that Cas knew it, and Dean felt him _mmm_ around his dick, because he’d finally learned that getting nipped there was always a good thing.

Dean took great pains not to work him much; God knew how close Cas was already, and Dean _so_ didn’t want him going off that close to his face—or that early. So he kept his strokes light and loose, nibbling on Cas’s butt as he did, and that helped him keep his mind on something that _wasn’t_ Cas’s mouth on his own cock; _he_ didn’t want to come early and ruin things, either.

Why was Cas’s ass so firm, anyway? He’d gone kinda squishy in the middle over the past twelve years, but he still had that same solid little butt. Well, Dean had no complaints with that. It made squeezing it all the more satisfying, for some reason. Cas made another _mmm_ noise around Dean’s prick as he groped him, and Dean exhaled, trying to keep himself in the game. He slipped his hand off of Cas’s hard-on to briefly cup and squeeze his balls, which Cas loved, of course. After ten years of this, Dean had seriously stopped worrying that he’d ever find something Cas would object to. Well, Dean wasn’t gonna complain about that, either—why would he complain about being with someone so easily satisfied? Not that that meant he was gonna slack off in the department—no, he would still put his thing down just as he would if Cas had been the pickiest angel ever created.

Dean licked softly at the vivid red mark he’d just left right on Cas’s ass, rocking his own hips against Cas’s mouth as he lapped at the head of Dean’s cock, then, unable to resist, nudged Cas’s knee forward as he slipped his index finger past his own lips for a moment. Once it was nice and wet, he slid it right up against Cas’s asshole, rubbing and teasing and he could tell Cas liked that _way_ more than he should. Of course, that just made awesome shit happen for Dean, too, because now Cas was groaning around his prick and shivering. And when Dean pushed forward, slowly slipping his slick finger into his ass, barely even up to the second knuckle, he recognized that pathetic, thready little whimper Cas made. Cas had stopped sucking, was just panting against Dean’s dick, one of his hands still gripping Dean’s cock and the other making a fist in the blankets, his head bowed and his eyes squeezed shut.

Okay—time to calm down now, or Cas would just go off right there.

Sliding out of him, Dean reached down and tugged on his elbow; Cas let go of his cock, crawling back up on top of him and immediately attempting to check Dean’s epiglottis with his own tongue. Dean busied himself by getting both his hands on Cas’s ass, yanking him forward and making him grind his hard-on against Dean’s, and Jesus, it was awesome. Cas rocked persistently, his fingers in Dean’s hair and refusing to let either of them get a breath. Dean dragged his hands up, wanting to feel every bit of Cas, and he felt the smooth, hot skin of his back—

…but only on one side.

 _Goddammit. God_ dammit _!_

His hands got stuck on Cas’s shoulders, just clinging tightly as he kissed him fiercely, _had_ to kiss him, his heart constricting painfully, the burning flesh under his right hand still soft and smooth but under his left were those _scars_ , and he knew they wouldn’t go away, they’d _always_ be there, it didn’t matter if they eventually faded, he’d _always_ have them—because he’d taken that hit—

“ _Cas_ ,” he gasped in the brief moment where he wasn’t kissing him, and wasn’t sorry he wasted what little breath he had on it. The grip on his hair tightened, as did the thighs around his hips, and then he became aware that he was rolling—yep, Cas was rolling over and he was taking Dean with him, and before long Cas was on his back and all arms and legs around him.

Cas managed to tear his mouth away from Dean’s and buried his face against Dean’s neck, and Dean’s breath hitched when he heard Cas gasp, “ _Dean_ ,” right against his pulse, and Dean had to stop moving. He just kept his arms tight around him, Cas’s scars pressing hard against his hand, and he just held him because he had to—he had to keep Cas here, right up against him, because no matter what he did, he still felt—every _goddamn time_ he felt those scars, he just…

He sought out the rapid patter of Cas’s pulse in his neck, pressing his lips against it and just _feeling_ it, and feeling his back along with that made his chest tighten again.

“Love you.” It burst out of him in a tiny, choked whisper, but who the fuck cared if it sounded so pitiful, because he _did_. It didn’t matter how he said it, and he’d say it if he fucking wanted to.

Cas sucked in a breath as Dean pulled back, seeking his mouth again, and while the kiss was hard, it turned long, deep, and slow. When it was done, he didn’t pull away. He just kept his forehead against Cas’s and listened to him pant. “I mean it.”

Cas just kept stroking his hair and his back, his eyes bright and his mouth against his own. “I love you,” Cas breathed, and Dean knew he did—and he knew how much. And honestly, he sometimes had no idea _why_. But he didn’t much care right now. All he cared about was that Cas did, and that he did, _too_. No, it wasn’t the first time he’d nearly lost him—fucking hell, he _had_ lost him before—but it was different because—

He knew why. Because it hadn’t been like this before. He hadn’t done it for…that reason. And Dean hadn’t felt this way about him.

He wanted Cas to know—he badly wanted him to know just what…what all that six months ago meant to him. What _this_ meant to him. What _everything_ meant to him. What _Cas_ meant to him. He wanted Cas to really _know_ —

Maybe it was the way he resting was between Cas’s legs that did it, one of his hooking up over Dean’s own and his thighs tight around him, that sparked the idea. Or maybe he only thought of it because of the way his hips were reflexively pushing forward, his stiff cock searching for a place to be. But either way, he thought of it, and now it was there.

_Dammit._

Crap. Cas always wanted that, for Christ’s sake. Cas was always so _happy_ after Dean went along with it, like it was some kind of big treat for him. And Dean wanted…he just wanted him to _know_.

Well, he wasn’t gonna be stupid and stuttery and sit around and drag it out; he’d already used up his allotment of _that_ with his brilliant sixty-nine suggestion. Though he wasn’t sure why he was gonna bother asking in the first place. He wanted to ask just to make sure Cas was…well, game, but of _course_ he would be—wasn’t he the one who always conned him into doing it in the first place?

“Cas,” he murmured, unable to look him in the eye because he was spending most of his energy making sure he didn’t stammer through this, “do you want—” He paused to swallow, and then forced the question out. “Do you want to have sex?”

He didn’t have to be looking at him to know he lit up like a lightbulb. “Yes,” Cas replied immediately, but, as always, added, “If you want to.”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t,” he muttered, staring at the hollow of his throat. “But you—you’re sure you’re—okay? You—you want to, and you aren’t just—just saying yes?”

He flicked his eyes up to meet Cas’s, hating the way his cheeks were heating up like he was some fucking high school reject trying to make it to second with a girl, and had to quickly look away again when he saw that soft look on Cas’s face. “I’m _fine_ , Dean,” he said, his hand skimming through his hair and coming down to rest on his cheek; Dean resisted the impulse to jerk away. “And I do want to.”

Taking a few breaths, he finally pulled away, leaving Cas to sit there and look starry-eyed and _grateful_ and all the shit he always looked like when Dean went along with this. He couldn’t take much of that, especially not for _this_ , so he just heaved himself away from Cas, crawling to the edge of the bed to get the lube out of his bag where it was resting by the night table. He easily fished the tube out, and his fingers were on one of the wrapped condoms sitting next to them—

…when he suddenly remembered that he didn’t need to use one, if he didn’t want to.

He’d not been joking the last time they’d done it—he’d figured they both needed to be tested, and so he had. He’d gone in private during some of their downtime, and then he’d told Cas to go and get tested on his own with the promise of certain death should he breathe a _word_ of his little trip to anyone. Dean had been unsurprised when he’d come back clean, and he’d been even less surprised when Cas had, too (it had been a mood killer when he found out, though, because Cas had decided to tell him right as Dean had been sliding into bed with him after a long drive and had been hoping for some mutual handjobs before going to sleep, which after that had not happened). So, they were both clean, and Dean…well, it was pretty definite at this point that there wouldn’t be anyone else for him _or_ Cas…

God, why did he feel freaked out asking Cas if he wanted to skip the rubber and go bare? It wasn’t like Cas attached any significance to the things. He hadn’t even understood getting sent to the clinic for a test in the first place! But…dammit, it meant something to _Dean_. It was—it was a sign of _commitment_ , and shit like that, and the whole idea of having nothing between them—God, that sounded stupid, but that’s how it was. Yeah, using condoms was… _cleaner_ , with how they had to do things, but—he just wanted to _show Cas_ —

“Cas, there’s—uh…” He got stuck again. _Shit._

“What is it, Dean?” Cas’s soft voice jerked him out of his reverie. 

He swallowed once and tried to continue. “If you want, we—uh, don’t have to…use the condom. If you want—if that’s okay. I mean, I get if you want to, but—” Goddammit, he was trying not to stutter!

Cas started talking and interrupted him. “We don’t have to, Dean.”

And, of course, just as he thought—zero realization as to what that actually meant. Why the hell was he bothering anyway? “Only if you’re sure,” he managed. Fuck, why did he care if Cas was sure? Cas didn’t friggin’ _care_!

“Of course, Dean.”

 _Of course, Dean_ , he internally mocked. Yes, it was _always_ “of course, Dean” with Cas. Stupid bastard. Well, fine. He’d suggested it, so they were gonna do it. He should’ve known better than to ask about any of it—why the hell would Cas have turned it down? The rubber obviously didn’t make any difference to him. And as if he’d balk about making it with or without a rubber, not after all the times in the past he’d tried to wheedle Dean into doing him. Dean had a sneaking suspicion he wouldn’t even have turned it down even if he had still been hurting or something, because Cas always wanted to get frisky, no matter the situation. In fact, Dean had a very _unpleasant_ sneaking suspicion that Cas had even wanted a little action _during his recovery time_. Because he was a horny son of a bitch.

And so Dean let go of the condom, leaving it to sit alone and neglected, and only pulled out the lube before heaving himself back up into bed and turning to face Cas. Cas hadn’t moved from where he’d been laying, apparently passively watching the whole time, but the minute Dean heaved back into view, Cas started to move, Dean was appalled to see that he was starting to _roll over_ —

Dean grabbed him before he got halfway, pushing him down on his back and making him get right back how he’d been before. _What the fuck, Cas?_ he growled to himself. Yeah, this wasn’t awkward enough already, now Cas had to go and do that, fucking try to bitch himself out. Well, Cas certainly had a high opinion of Dean now, didn’t he, automatically assuming that it would be like _that_. Those other two times didn’t count, goddammit; Cas had been _being_ a bitch, so Dean had just _treated_ him like one.

Cas was looking confused now, which wasn’t helping, so Dean quickly got rid of that by kissing him, licking slowly inside of his mouth as he set the lube aside and just reached up and stroked along his neck, as much to make himself forget about Cas’s stunt just now as anything. It worked quicker than he thought it would, particularly because Cas’s hands quickly went to tracing familiar burning patterns up and down Dean’s back and pulling him down on top of him, and their cocks were pressed together between their stomachs, laying like this, and Cas kept bumping against him—Dean was always pleased by that slow slide of skin against skin.

By the time Dean had moved to plant soft kisses and licks at Cas’s neck, his hips still rocking slowly back and forth as he frotted against him, Cas was just clinging tightly to him, one hand knotted in his hair and the other squeezing his shoulder. “ _Dean…_ ” he moaned, shivering and shuddering under him.

Dean wasn’t particularly interested in moving from where he was, but he did it anyway, licking at Cas’s neck and groping around where he’d set the lube. Once he got his fingers around it, he rolled off of Cas, coming to rest beside him. Of course, Cas was still clingy, not letting go of him and stroking his neck and chest and trying to follow him and keep kissing him. Dean just pushed him down on his back again and concentrated on getting the cap off the tube, and once he did, he easily got a good amount on his fingers and palm and then recapped the stuff, not bothering to be annoyed with how Cas was trying to distract him. Well, his attempts didn’t last long, ‘cause he knew what was coming and finally settled down, getting more comfortable against the pillows and spreading his legs when Dean reached down between them.

There was a brief moment when Dean couldn’t help but take a second or two to be very unamused how this—well, how _everything_ he was doing was the most ridiculous parody of making it to third base with a chick that he’d ever seen. But he shoved aside his own irritation because he’d done this enough times that he should just stop being annoyed, so what the hell was wrong with him? Besides—Cas absolutely adored it. And he was adoring it now, even though all Dean was doing was gently rubbing his fingers back and forth across his asshole. Cas wasn’t making much noise, but he was fidgeting already like he always did, straining against Dean’s fingers, trying to get him inside.

Cas sucked in a breath that he let out as a deep, satisfied sigh when Dean finally pushed one finger in, taking it slow but going deep, crooking it a little to press right where he knew Cas liked. But he didn’t do anything dramatic, because if he did that, Cas would just come all over himself and ruin everything. So he just gently slid back and forth a few times before slowly adding the second finger, leaning down to kiss the corner of Cas’s mouth as he did, feeling Cas shudder underneath him.

He knew Cas shouldn’t be uncomfortable—he never was, not with this, because he liked it—but he couldn’t help but watch, just in case. Six months just didn’t seem like _enough_ for him to be completely healed up, especially after he’d seen the end results. But no, Cas seemed to think he was fine and was making sure Dean knew it, reaching up to pull him closer and panting against his mouth as Dean kept up his steady, gentle motions inside of him. He writhed and arched up against his hand when Dean hesitantly started adding a third finger, but Dean stiffened a little at the breathless little noise Cas let out when he did.

“You okay?” he couldn’t help but ask, slowing his fingers and easing back.

“Yes,” Cas breathed, his eyes tightly closed, his hips pushing up against Dean’s fingers, wanting him deeper. Dean obliged—gently—and savored the little moan he got out of it, bumping Cas’s chin with his forehead as he leaned down, softly kissing his thudding pulse, Cas’s fingers flexing against his shoulders.

Something else that was a minor inconvenience: he couldn’t keep this up all night, which he knew he could have done in the old days with a chick— _would_ have done in the old days with a chick, ‘cause he was Dean Winchester and he _could_ keep going all night and so wouldn’t have stopped until he’d counted at least five orgasms. But not with Cas, because once he went off, well, they were done, at least for a while. But it didn’t matter—he’d adapted, dammit. 

So he gave his fingers one last twist and got one last twitch out of Cas before slowly sliding them out, unable to resist reaching up with his slick hand and giving Cas a few tight strokes, smirking when he jumped a little. He let go and reached for his own prick, slicking himself up with the rest of the lube still on his hand, admittedly enjoying the feel of his own slippery fingers on his skin. But he could think of something better, so he gripped Cas’s knee, tugging lightly to get his legs further apart and eased himself back between them and on top of him, and he reached up with his slippery hand and pressed their cocks together, exhaling with Cas this time as all that hard, hot flesh slid against him as he rocked his hips against Cas’s, keeping them tightly together. Cas had his arms around Dean’s neck, trying to tug him down, but Dean refused to mash him against the mattress. Just because Cas liked to be mashed didn’t mean he was gonna get it. Tonight, anyway.

Dean only enjoyed the hot slide of their dicks a few more times before letting Cas go, pushing up on his palms and bending his knees a little more to get them up under Cas’s thighs, giving himself a bit of an angle to…make this easier. Dean reached around the backs of Cas’s knees and drew them up, and as he did, he glanced up, and he almost snorted with laughter when he saw the look of _dawning comprehension_ on Cas’s face—almost, because before Dean could laugh at Cas for being an idiot, Dean noticed that it wasn’t just him waking up and joining everybody else, no. Cas was looking _exultant_ , like he couldn’t believe Dean was about to do it like this, that _look_ that always made Dean’s chest get warm and made him need to lean down and kiss Cas—which he did.

But he kept it short, rocking back and grabbing his own prick again, and he felt Cas tipping his hips back for him, pulling his knees farther up and hooking his feet on the backs of his thighs. Cas was watching him while he did it, still with that _look_ , which was making it hard for Dean to think about what he was doing. He bit his lip as he slowly dragged the head of his cock down underneath Cas’s sack and between his asscheeks, easily finding where he wanted, and then looking up and meeting Cas’s eyes, watching for any sign that he was hurting or uncomfortable, and then, as slowly as he could possibly manage, eased the head of his prick inside of him, shutting his eyes briefly as he did. Jesus, Cas was so _hot_ —without the rubber in the way, he seemed as if he was almost burning.

When he opened his eyes again, he saw Cas still looking back, and he seemed okay for now, at least, and he didn’t _feel_ tense, so Dean slowly leaned forward, letting his cock go as he braced himself on the mattress, and Cas eagerly reached up to pull him down by his shoulders. Dean pressed his hips forward at an agonizing pace, keeping his thrusts painfully slow and shallow, sliding inside of Cas, _bare_ inside of Cas, groaning as he did because _God_ , he…he loved this, he _knew_ he loved this, and he loved it because it was _Cas_ , and he _did_ want it, but—but he didn’t want to be _rough_ or _hurt_ him—

“Cas—” he gasped, and he’d wanted to maybe ask if he was okay, if it hurt, if he was uncomfortable or if it was going too fast—anything—but Cas’s grip just tightened on him and he finally managed to pull him all the way down, pressing their chests together and the way Cas moved his hips, curving his back—oh, _Jesus_ , that did it, he was all the way inside him, inside _Cas_ —

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas moaned, but he didn’t say anything else, just knotting his fingers in Dean’s hair and dragging his mouth back to his own and kissing him almost frantically as Dean gently rocked his hips, just a little, and he felt the thighs around his hips tighten. He was all right—fuck, Cas was _all right_ —

He had to tear his mouth away from Cas’s to breathe, still moving his hips, always slow, just burying his face against Cas’s neck. “I love you,” he whispered, right against his throat.

Cas’s hands were tight on his shoulders, his nails digging into his skin, and Dean heard and felt his little shuddering gasp. “Dean, I—” But he didn’t quite finish because Dean couldn’t help it and had to kiss him again, tasting him, every part of his mouth, and when he finally stopped, their foreheads together and their lips just barely touching, Cas said it, “I _love you_ , Dean,” his thumb pressed up against Dean’s pulse as he did.

Cas’s hard, gasping breaths were almost in time with every slow thrust forward as he clung to Dean, and Dean got his arms up under him so he could cling just as tightly back. He just wanted to be as close to him as possible, and he couldn’t get any closer than _this_ , with nothing between them, and yes, he did love Cas, he loved him _so much_ , and he’d almost lost him because he was still willing to sacrifice everything for them—for _him_ —but he hadn’t—he was here, still with him, still _alive_ —

Some part of him knew he needed to reach between them and stroke Cas’s cock, because Dean already felt things getting hot and building towards the end, but he didn’t want to let him go—he _couldn’t_ let him go, couldn’t to stop holding him, keeping him in his arms and up against him as he moved. Cas didn’t want to let go either, holding him tightly to him, his heels digging into the backs of Dean’s thighs, moving up against him, timing the tilts of his hips with Dean’s thrusts as he bit down gently where Dean’s neck met his shoulder.

“ _Dean_ ,” Cas groaned again, his legs squeezing around Dean, “I—” He stopped, hesitating, but Dean knew what he wanted to say so he picked up his pace, unable to help it, staring in his eyes and waiting because he _wanted_ to hear it, wanted him to _say_ it, “I love you…”

And Dean knew he did, knew how much, and he loved him too and he wanted him to _know_ , really know, as he leaned up again to kiss him, gasping and moaning with Cas as his balls tightened, the heat in his groin already getting white-hot, but he didn’t stop, he kissed and licked down his throat and kept going, curving his back and gently arching Cas’s up with his hands, kissing right there, on the sweat-slick skin of his breastbone—on his _heart_ —and only then did he answer, his voice breaking, “I love you, Cas, I—so much, I _love you_ —”

Cas gave a great, shuddering wheeze, his grip painful as he trembled against Dean, his hands grasping and yanking as he forced Dean back up, but he just buried his face against Dean’s shoulder, clinging desperately, his breath coming in little whistling gasps, “Dean, I— _Dean_ —oh— _oh_ — _Dean—!_ ”

His grip was bruising and he gave a helpless cry, and suddenly Dean could feel him coming, holy God, he was _coming_ , Dean hadn’t even touched him, but Dean just kept thrusting, pushing forward, he had to be there too, had to get there now because he wanted to be there with _Cas_ , he’d been close, he _was_ close, Cas— _Cas—!_

Dean didn’t have the sense or the wherewithal or the anything to remind himself not to squeeze Cas too tightly, because his arms just constricted around his body—around his back—even as the pressure inside him finally just let go, and his hips were jerking against Cas’s as he came with him, came _inside_ of him, and he was barely aware of his own loud moaning because he could hear Cas, saying he loved him, almost _sobbing_ it, just over and over, his arms and legs tight around him and holding him there, refusing to let him go, and Dean wouldn’t let _him_ go, _he would not let him go_ —

The exhaustion finally hit him, and he knew it’d hit Cas, too, but Cas was still all wrapped tight around him, trembling, his face pressed against Dean’s shoulder. Dean kept his eyes squeezed shut, swallowing hard, struggling to make that stinging feeling fade, to make that lump in his throat go away so he could talk. Cas was still panting underneath him, shivering as his hands petted and stroked whatever they could reach on Dean’s back, and Dean couldn’t help but smile when he heard it, just that cracked whisper, “I love you, Dean.”

At the sound of a small, pathetic little sniff, Dean raised his head, and it was impossible to miss the little wet trail down Cas’s cheek. _Seriously, Cas?_ Now that was just sad. He reached up and brushed the pad of his thumb across his tear track, cupping his cheek and tilting his head to kiss the now dry skin, only to spot another one leaking out of the corner of his other eye. Cas really was pitiful sometimes. After he leaned down and softly kissed Cas’s lips, he used the backs of his fingers to gently wipe away the other one, kissing his mouth again as he did, feeling (and hearing) Cas still struggling to breathe and come down from it all.

“Dean—I—” Cas kept trying to talk, no matter how many times Dean would try to shush him with tiny kisses. Dean did his best to keep him quiet, at least until he stopped gasping for breath and his arms and legs finally unlocked from where he’d wound himself around Dean. But just because he was unlocked didn’t mean he let go—and to be fair, Dean wasn’t letting go, either. Not when he could still feel Cas’s pulse still fluttering frantically beneath his skin right there on his neck, and not when he could feel Cas’s hand pressing against his ribs.

Keeping track of time post-orgasm was something he’d never attempted to do. So he had no idea how long they sat there, almost completely still, just…pretty much _feeling_ each other. All he knew was that he was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that their stomachs were sticky. And at that point, Dean was not gonna lay here like this any longer—as nice as just…holding Cas was, and being held back, they were both a _complete mess_. It wasn’t acceptable, particularly since Dean had not only not worn a raincoat, but hadn’t caught Cas’s load either. This was a disaster area.

“Cas, come on,” he murmured against his mouth. “Clean up. Need to do that.”

Cas finally opened his eyes again, nodding a little, and Dean leaned in for one more kiss before he pushed away from him. His prick had already been slowly sliding out of Cas as it had softened, but he still shivered as he finally slipped free of him, and as he lurched out of bed he carefully avoided looking down at his stomach or at anything else but his destination, the sink. God knew they probably both looked like they’d just finished shooting a porno—or worse. He managed to wobble his way over to the sink, slowly picking up the washrag sitting on the counter as Cas tottered into the bathroom behind him.

“Mess” did not describe how he looked right now, and he’d bet fifty bucks Cas was worse, but he had zero desire to think about it. So he just scrubbed everything as thoroughly as he could, his stomach and his hands and his junk, before tossing the rag back onto the sink and running it under cold water. Only then did he realize that the rag was there because that was the one that Cas had been using to dab at his shirt, which was lying forgotten at his feet up by the sink; Dean picked it up and set it on the countertop. Guess that tomato-stain would wind up setting anyway. He doubted Cas would even care at this point.

After flipping the blankets up a little to cover up the mess on the bed they’d used, he meandered over and turned them down on the other, and was sliding his legs under as Cas opened the door to the bathroom, and Dean could see from there that his eyes were still a little red as he shut off the light, detouring to turn off the rest of the lights in the room as well before he crawled into bed beside Dean. He was immediately all grasping hands as he reached forward and yanked Dean back to him, getting up against him and wrapping his arms and legs around him like a spider and making Dean hold him as tightly as possible. Dean had no problems with obliging him.

Once Cas was satisfied with the situation, Dean felt his hand slide around, seeking out his heartbeat. “Dean,” he whispered, stroking there, “You—I love you.” His eyes closed again and he somehow managed to get even closer, all up under Dean’s chin, his voice starting to get thick and quivery as he kept talking. “I—I do—so much—love you—more than anything—”

“Hey, come on, man—shut up” Dean finally said, reaching down and getting a handful of angel butt briefly before moving his palms back up to Cas’s back. “Now you’re just embarrassing yourself, Cas; you sound like an idiot.” He swallowed once, rubbing his cheek on the top of Cas’s head. “Anyway, I—I know you do.”

Cas sighed, but it was contented, and he was quiet, so Dean just settled down against the pillows, with Cas securely in his arms.

* * *

Dean very slowly became aware that he was awake, but he made absolutely no effort to try and stay that way. Unfortunately, it didn’t matter—his body continued to make that slow plod towards wakefulness despite his immediate desire to just go back to sleep. He wanted to; he was pleasantly warm and groggy, but not the bad kind of groggy that usually indicated he’d gotten way too little sleep or was coming off of a nasty fight with something bitchy. No, this was his favorite kind of groggy. And really, knowing it was the “I got laid last night” groggy is what made him finally give in and declare himself awake, just so he could open his eyes and find what he could feel still wrapped up in his arms, all hot and pressed up against him, buzzing lightly in his sleep.

There was Cas, right where he’d left him.

Cas always looked ridiculously soppy and peaceful when he was asleep in Dean’s bed. Dean knew that from experience—whenever Cas fell asleep alone, he was peaceful, sure, but it was just…it looked different. He looked _content_ when Dean was with him, and Dean wasn’t so stupid to think it was just because he had something warm to wrap himself around.

Shifting a little, he idly ran his hand up and down Cas’s back, taking his time on each stroke, feeling every smooth spot as well as every new knot and pucker. Maybe they weren’t _that_ bad. Sure, they were bad, but…it wasn’t like Cas was disfigured or anything. And besides, it’d barely been six months. They’d fade. They’d fade and he’d be fine—to say nothing of the fact that Cas himself had been completely blasé about his scars last night, and had never given a crap about what he looked like anyway. Well, Dean wouldn’t care then, either. They all had scars, so why shouldn’t Cas have any?

He closed his eyes again as he got one finger in a particularly deep spot, tracing it out like a roadmap until he couldn’t feel it anymore as it smoothed out and gave way to the still-unmarred flesh of Cas’s back. Care or not, he wasn’t going to bother denying that he _preferred_ the smooth stuff. And speaking of smooth, he slid his hand down, still leisurely and slow, until he had it resting right on Cas’s ass. Funny as it would’ve been for him to get staked right in the butt, Dean was certainly glad he hadn’t been—and that bitch Gertrude had also better be glad she hadn’t, or he certainly wouldn’t have made her death as quick as he had.

Dean paused his stroking when Cas heaved a tiny sigh, shifting in his sleep; his leg tightened a little where it was hooked up around Dean’s hip, but other than that, he remained still. Though his movement did somehow make his buzzing snore stop. Good thing, too—amusing it might have been, it was getting a tad irritating with it being so close to his ear. Dean looked down at his still form; Cas really was a very solid sleeper when he wasn’t having nightmares or something. He didn’t flop around, he didn’t talk, he didn’t spread his arms and legs all over the bed—worst thing he tended to do was steal the covers, which, if you were sharing a bed with the feathery little furnace, was perfectly fine. He put out enough heat that Dean was usually glad when he stole them. Really, Cas was a pretty decent bedmate—well, mostly. Dean figured he should adjust his initial assessment: the worst _normal_ thing Cas did was steal covers. But he did have his own particular quirk while sleeping—without fail, Cas _migrated_. He was like a glacier, slowly inching across the bed until he was pressed right up against Dean. Happened every time they fell asleep just on their own sides. It was always really irritating when he woke up and Cas’s prick was all up against his ass, doubly so because Cas slept naked (and while he _wished_ he hadn’t also woken up more than once to Cas’s _hard_ prick against his ass, he unfortunately had). But waking up and finding that Cas had spontaneously teleported into his arms…that wasn’t too bad.

But this was best. When he fell asleep with Cas all up against his chest, one of his hands pressed against Dean’s heart, and then woke up the next morning to find him still there.

He stayed still for a few more seconds, feeling Cas’s slow, even breath skating across his skin, when he finally opened his eyes again and lifted his head, careful not to jostle Cas. Crap—it was 8:30. He’d meant to get them out and on the road earlier today; there were eighteen hours of driving ahead of them. They usually didn’t sleep this late. It wasn’t like they’d stayed up all night or something.

Seeing the time was what finally got him moving. Granted, he didn’t immediately leap out of bed or anything. In fact, it was five minutes later when he finally started extricating himself from Cas’s clinging arms and legs, trying not to wake him up as he did. Unfortunately, right as he slid his knee off the bed and stood up, he saw Cas’s eyes crack open, his gaze blearily lighting on Dean almost immediately.

“Don’t get up, Cas,” Dean whispered. “Go on back to sleep.”

Cas slowly blinked for a few seconds before his eyes shut completely again, and Dean snorted quietly as Cas curled up in the warm spot where Dean had just been, wrapping the covers around himself as he did. Dean guessed Cas probably thought he was still dreaming or something. Dean shuffled to the other side of the bed, picking up his jeans and his shorts as he went, making his way to his bag. He figured he’d get dressed and then go get some breakfast—he wasn’t really sure what he wanted yet, having just woken up, but he didn’t want to miss out on anything good just lazing around in bed. He’d get Cas up when he got back.

He pulled on a new pair of shorts, but just used yesterday’s jeans. He contemplated pulling on the same shirt, but opted not to—he might as well just get a new one; it wouldn’t hurt anything. After he pulled on his socks, knotted his shoelaces and shrugged into his jacket, he stuffed his wallet in his back pocket and grabbed his keys, making sure to muffle their jingling as he slouched to the door. Halfway there, he reminded himself to detour over to the trashcan for his usual ritual of taking out the more incriminating evidence of his and Cas’s little to-do’s—

…except there was no evidence this time.

He stared blankly down at the almost empty trashcan, sitting there innocuously on the floor, no condom wrapped in tissue sitting on top. There wouldn’t be one—because he hadn’t used one.

He blinked stupidly for a few seconds before the full impact of last night’s _session_ hit him.

 _I had_ bareback gay sex _with Cas last night. And that was_ after _we sixty-nined it._

 _Ooooookay_ , time to go sit in the Impala.

He made sure his exit was fast but quiet, speedily walking to the car and flumping down into the front seat, slamming the door before gripping the steering wheel with one hand while he rubbed over his face with the other.

 _Goddammit. Shit. God_ dammit _. Every fucking time they did this…_

It was just that every…other time before, whenever he’d— _done_ Cas, for some reason it hadn’t seemed quite as—good God, of course it had been that fucking gay, but somehow he’d—he’d _rationalized_ it. Because it was just a—just a hard fuck! They were just _fucking_ , but this—it’d been the exact same shit only there was no way he could call _that_ fucking. And goddammit, it had never been free and easy, either—he’d always had his rubber, which made it less—less _intimate_ somehow, and the more he thought about it, the more ridiculous it was to think of it as some kind of—kind of _barrier_ against him and making everything they did that fucking _gay_ , but he had anyway—but this time, that was all gone. Cas’s stupid romance novels would call that shit _love-making_ , sweet Christ…

Fucking _hell_ , that was so _gay_ last night. _He’d_ been so gay last night. So what did that make him this morning?

He leaned his head back against the seat, staring hard at the ceiling. He wasn’t fucking _gay_. Goddammit, he _wasn’t_ gay! So why did—why did he _do_ this gay shit with Cas?!

Dean snorted. He wasn’t sure if he could even call that being gay, because calling the way he’d been acting last night “gay” was an insult to gay shit. No, what _he’d_ been doing last night was being a huge fucking pussy. What the hell was wrong with him, getting that worked up over some scars? Cas might be a research monkey, but he was still a hunter, and bad shit happened to hunters sometimes. Dean had scars, Sam had scars—every hunter had scars, and some pretty nasty ones at that. But no, he’d gone and freaked out just because he’d seen Cas’s new ones. And just because he’d nearly gotten himself killed that night was no reason to spaz out over it now. He—son of a bitch, he wasn’t fucking _dead_. Cas had lived through it, and it was fucking time to move on. Dean had actually thought he _had_ been over it, but no, last night he’d taken one look at Cas’s back and had to grow a vagina and almost get _weepy_ over him. Just because he’d _almost_ lost him didn’t mean he _had_!

But the rest of it…dear Christ, the _rest_ of it…everything he’d—everything _they’d_ done last night…

What in the motherfucking hell was he supposed to do with _that_?

_Nothing._

The word popped into his head unbidden, and it was such a surprise to him he actually jumped.

Because it was right.

Nothing. He was going to do _nothing_.

Goddammit, he wasn’t gonna do a _damn thing_ about it because who the fuck _cared_? He knew he wasn’t gay. He still looked at chicks and downloaded all kinds of lesbian porn and the bigger the boobs were on his Anime schoolgirls, the better. He still jerked it to pin-ups and still woke up stiff and sweaty after dreaming of being tackled by triplets— _identical_ triplets.

He wasn’t fucking gay. And what he did with Cas wasn’t fucking gay, either. What he did with Cas was what he did with Cas because Cas was Cas and that was _it_. He—fuckballs, he was just fucking _in love_ with Cas, was all, and he couldn’t help that. And so he’d do whatever he wanted with him, because it didn’t even matter _what_ it was—he loved him.

…And even if—even if it _was_ gay…

Even if it _was_ gay, he still wouldn’t fucking care. ‘Cause he’d go gay for that stupid angel if he had to. He loved him enough to do it.

Forcefully, he dug his keys out of his pocket and jammed the right one into the ignition. He needed to get breakfast. Cas would be up soon—and Dean didn’t want to keep him waiting.

* * *

When Dean swung the door to their room open, the heavy, fat sack with breakfast in one hand and somehow managing to balance their drinks in his arms at the same time because he was awesome, he saw Cas had already woken up on his own and was out of bed. However, Dean knew it hadn’t been for long, because while Cas had on his shorts and t-shirt, he was up at the sink furiously brushing his teeth. Oral hygiene was always way up there on Cas’s list of things to do when he first woke up, so Dean wasn’t concerned that he’d been here fretting for too long about where Dean had disappeared to. And Dean had disappeared to somewhere awesome, because when he’d been driving around, scoping the town for something tasty, he’d buzzed by the mall and had immediately turned in to go inside because malls meant something that he _knew_ Cas would go crazy for, and definitely something that he himself wouldn’t turn down, either. And he’d been right—there it was, right there the in the food court. _Cinnabon._

He’d gotten them two each of the biggest ones he could order, getting extra icing for his own. Jesus, the things were bigger than his head—it was gonna be so good when he dug into these. He knew from experience that Cas was insane about cinnamon rolls—cinnamon anything, really—and while Cas had only had Cinnabon a couple of times before, both times he’d looked like he could die right there and have zero regrets.

While Dean had been waiting for his order, he’d glanced down the way and by sheer luck there had been a little hippie restaurant next to him, full of organic shit and a bunch of vegan crap he wouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole. But from where he was standing he could see their selection of drinks, so he’d been unable to resist shooting over there and skimming the fruit juices, finally picking out one he thought maybe Cas hadn’t tried—guava nectar. He’d felt dirty buying something from a store that was not only an affront to all of his sensibilities but also to God Himself—imitation vegan _bacon_?!—but he’d soldiered through and had done it anyway, and, after that place, had actually felt almost manly going to the Starbucks across the food court to pick up some hot coffee for himself.

Kicking the motel door shut behind him, he set the drinks down by the table next to the door so he could relock everything. “Hey, Cas,” he called, picking up everything again and setting it back down on the table where they would be eating.

“Good morning, Dean,” came the sighing, almost dazed response, and Dean just snorted with laughter as he set Cas’s juice in front of one seat and his coffee in front of the other. The water shut off, and he glanced up as Cas came drifting over, his big blue eyes on him the whole time, all shiny and starry like they always were on mornings like this.

 _Man, you little bastard_ , he thought, because he couldn’t help it—the second Cas got within grabbing distance, Dean reached out and got a hand on his elbow, dragging him forward before he could try and sit down and just wrapping his arms around him. He sighed contentedly, nuzzling his face against Cas’s neck and nibbling a little at the soft skin he found there as he felt Cas’s arms come up as well, his hands on his shoulders.

Why was it that Cas just felt so damn right in his arms? It was stupid. But it was the truth—he just felt _good_ here, like some kind of perfect fit. It was ridiculous that he did, because the perfect fit had always been a woman—they certainly curved better. But no, even if he was a skinny little stick-figure, Cas just was the right everything when it came to this.

Reaching up, he tilted Cas’s chin up so he could kiss him, keeping his eyes closed as he did and brushing his thumb over his cheek. He could taste the mint of his toothpaste, and he was a bit scruffy under his palm because he hadn’t shaved this morning yet, but really, he’d gotten used to the stubble. It wasn’t like Cas had gone mountain man on him, or anything.

That one kiss became two, and then a few more, all slow and deep, which was fine—but he didn’t let it become too many, eventually just stopping and resting his forehead against Cas’s, standing there in the middle of their motel room, his eyes shut, listening to Cas breathe, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against his own.

Fuck everything, he was stupidly in love with the dork.

He finally opened his eyes, and was unsurprised to see that Cas was already looking back; Cas was very fond of staring unblinkingly at him. Dean held his gaze for a moment before he let him go, taking a tiny step back. “Breakfast, dude,” he said, keeping his voice light and patting his butt before nudging him toward his seat.

Cas didn’t exactly snap out of his reverie, but he did finally look down at the table as Dean reached into the bag and gave Cas his two rolls. Cas’s senses seemed to have finally caught up with the rest him, as he either saw the label on the bag or smelled the cinnamon because, just as Dean thought, he looked to be about two seconds away from just having a foodgasm right there. He quickly slid into his seat, already popping open his container and picking up the fork Dean had tossed beside it, while Dean reached down and kicked out of his shoes just ‘cause he could, and then he dug into his own rolls as well.

He gave Cas a few minutes of cinnamony bliss before speaking. “So,” he began around a mouthful, “it’s about nine-thirty—I figure we can just head out when we check out and drive until we wanna stop—maybe somewhere in Missouri.”

Cas didn’t reply, just nodded, seeing as he was stuffing his face. Dean could have made it all the way at least into Iowa if he was on his own or with Sam, but not with Cas—Cas hated driving all day and into the night because he was a pansy. But it was fine, because it wasn’t like he and Cas never took their time when they were coming back home from their hunts. Nothing wrong with doing the same thing with this dud. ‘Sides—Dean wanted to.

After that, they didn’t say much of anything; whenever they ate breakfast in the motel after a…night like last night, they usually didn’t talk. This time it was particularly bad, given that Dean had brought back cinnamon rolls. No way Cas was gonna have eyes for anything but his delicious swirly buns. He seemed to dig the guava stuff too, so Dean congratulated himself on a breakfast well bought.

Because it was quiet, it didn’t take long. Cas finished before Dean did, and after he capped his empty bottle, he rose to go—what else—brush his teeth again. Dean polished off the last of his breakfast while Cas did his thing before standing up to tidy up the mess. He tossed the now-empty containers back into the bag they came in, along with the empty juice bottle, and then shoved the whole mess into the trashcan as Cas finished up by the sink.

He sighed in satisfaction as he stretched hugely, his fingertips reaching for the ceiling, and he felt a few pleasant pops up his spine as he did. However, when he lowered his arms and made to reach for his coffee, a hand suddenly touched the small of his back. Dean stilled, raising his eyebrows as he looked slightly over his shoulder at the hesitant touch, and a moment later there were warm arms snaking tentatively around his stomach from behind, and then there was Cas, all pressed up against him, his cheek resting on his shoulder.

Dean could really only smile and let him do it, reaching up to cover the hand that had crept up to press against his heartbeat, and then he felt around with his other hand until his fingers touched Cas’s hair, holding him where he was.

“Dean…” Cas murmured, almost shyly, and Dean waited patiently, dropping his hand away from his head as he heard Cas swallow a bit, and even though he couldn’t see it, he knew he was probably licking his lips like he always did. “I love you,” he finally whispered, his face pressed tightly against his shoulder.

Dean just closed his eyes, a tiny smile curling one corner of his mouth as he squeezed his fingers and reached around behind him to pat Cas’s hip. “I know you do,” he answered.

And he did.

The room was silent while they stood together, almost completely still except for Cas nuzzling and rubbing his cheek against Dean’s back. Dean really wasn’t sure how long they stood there, but he didn’t really care. They could stand there as long as they wanted.

Well, except how they couldn’t. _Check out_ , he reminded himself, finally opening his eyes. He turned in Cas’s grip, angling so he could get a good look at him—and then paused.

Cas was all up next to him, pressed against his chest, his arms tight around his middle. His eyes were big and bright and somehow he didn’t look ridiculous despite the fact that his hair was standing up like a comb and his skinny legs were sticking out of a pair of baggy shorts with chili peppers on them (the ones that Dean had thrown into his drawer as a joke, but that Cas had just worn anyway like they were normal).

Slowly, Dean slid his hands up over Cas hips and then down and around to grip his ass. “We’re gonna have to roll out in about an hour,” Dean said, pulling his hips tight against his own, and then leveled a very pointed look right at him. “I don’t know about you, but I could use a shower.”

And there he went—his obscenely gooey, soppy, lovey-dovey expression suddenly changed, because that was just what Cas did. Zero to horny, every single time. His tongue flicked out, just a little, and then Dean smirked as he felt Cas’s hands slide around to his front and then slowly drop from Dean’s stomach down to his jeans, working to get them open.

_Don’t change, Cas. Don’t ever change._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So—after twelve long years, we finally have Dean where we want him. We had never planned for him to become totally open about his relationship, but we wanted him to get over his own internalized homophobia to the point that he’s finally comfortable with it. He will always have some lingering issues in the back of his mind, but at long last he’s finally just said “fuck it” and has decided not to let them dictate what he can and cannot do with Cas—or let him get hung up on the fact that he’s in love with Cas.
> 
> Just the epilogue left to go!


	4. Carry On My Wayward Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam contemplates his two brothers and their hearts.

_October 31, 2024_

Sam had just dragged the overfull laundry basket up the stairs when he heard the sound of the Impala roar up behind the house. He peered out the back window as he dropped the basket on the couch. “They’re back,” he said to Bobby, who grunted from where he was sitting at the library desk.

“‘Bout damn time,” was all he said, and Sam just gave a wry nod.

Sam had spent the first part of his time off with Bobby cleaning up his weapons, helping Bobby out with some research, and formatting his hard drive (Dean had been using his computer again, so he had a new battery of porn-related popups he needed to get rid of). But eventually, he figured that, since he was the one who’d sent Cas out with Dean, it was more or less his job to cover Cas’s household duties while he was gone.

You know, since he’d been gone for _six days_ , and all.

Sam rolled his eyes at the sound of the slamming doors from outside. Dean had called him up on Monday night and absolutely reamed him out for sending them off on a case that hadn’t panned out. Oh, yeah, ‘cause it wasn’t like Dean had taken one look at his evidence and said it looked good and that he wanted to go, or anything. To say nothing of the supposed haunting in that old house in Iowa two weeks ago that Dean insisted they go check out before coming back to Bobby’s that turned out to be nothing but a bunch of pranking kids. No—this was all _Sam’s_ fault, and Dean would _never_ do such a thing.

Of course, Sam knew the real reason he was so bitchy, and he wasn’t sure if it made it funnier or just more aggravating. No, Dean had it in his head that Sam hadn’t been mistaken, but that he’d done it on _purpose_. _No, Dean_ , he thought to himself, grabbing the shirt from the top of the pile and, after identifying it was Cas’s, folded it and set it aside. _I really did think the hunt was real and didn’t mean to send you out on a wild-goose chase._

But he did send them off by themselves on purpose.

And Dean knew that much for sure, and so now he was back to his blustering, over-compensating bullshit, and Sam was just a huge bitch for having the nerve to even suggest that he might want to have some alone time with Cas.

Yeah, ‘cause taking six whole days just to run down and check out a dead end did so much to disabuse him of that notion.

Man—no wonder Cas was always doing laundry. Sam had lived on the road for most of his life and tried to keep things simple, but with the four of them using Bobby’s house as home base—and two of them permanently—their clothes did pile up. Well, Cas was back now, so he could help Sam out; he _really_ didn’t want to be folding Bobby’s underwear.

Sam left off his folding at the thump of the door. Dean had just sauntered in, his backpack over his shoulder and his duffel in his hand. He took one look at Sam and smirked. “Well, hey there, if it isn’t Rosey the Robot—since you’re playing housekeeper, I guess I have another load for you,” he said, and chucked his duffel right at Sam’s head. “Hey, Bobby,” he called casually as he turned and walked off in the other direction.

Sam had caught the bag easily and now was giving Dean’s retreating back a nasty look, but it went unseen because Dean was ambling off into the kitchen to get—what else?—a beer. Sam dropped the bag to the side with a snort, because Dean could do his own damn laundry. Right after he did, Sam glanced up to find Cas wandering in after him. “Hey, Cas,” Sam said.

He didn’t expect an answer—no, the minute Cas walked in the door, Sam could clearly see that he only had eyes for Dean. Cas stepped inside and shut the door behind him; he was moving on autopilot, because he clearly wasn’t thinking about anything else right now, looking at Dean as he rummaged in the fridge with an expression close to worship.

Sam’s mouth twisted in amused disgust just as Cas seemed to shake himself. “Hello, Sam, Bobby,” he finally said, and glanced down to see the pile of clean clothes on the couch in front of him. “I can do that,” he said, gesturing to the basket on the couch.

“Well, you’re welcome to it if you want to,” Sam said, stepping to the side but still picking up another pair of jeans and folding them to help as Cas came skating over to start in on it. “Don’t know how you play the happy homemaker all the time—it was driving me nuts.”

“Nobody asked you to wait on me,” came a grumble from Bobby. “And good thing, too, ‘cause you can’t clean a bathroom for shit.”

“Isn’t that the point?” Dean said smartly as he came back out into the room, a beer in one hand and a folded wad of lunchmeat and cheese in the other. He looked down at the pile of clothes, Sam and Cas both arm deep in it, and said, “Man, Cas, let him do it—that’s what he gets for his crappy detective work.” He grinned at his own brilliance and Sam’s annoyed expression before dropping heavily in a nearby chair and getting comfortable, taking a big bite out of his bundle of meat.

When Sam turned back to the laundry to avoid Dean’s self-satisfied expression, he found that Cas had had to pause in his folding to listen to Dean speaking with a rapt expression. He had to gaze lovingly at him a little longer, but he managed to snap himself out of it and get back to the pile of underwear that Sam had been avoiding.

Jesus—Sam didn’t think he’d seen Cas looking this love-struck in a long time. For all his bitching, Dean had clearly put their time off to good use.

“So, Bobby, you find anything new for us? A _real_ job this time?” Dean asked easily, and although he was talking to Bobby, the emphasis in his voice was all for Sam. Sam just kept folding the shirt in his hands, not giving Dean the response he obviously wanted (despite rolling his eyes where Dean couldn’t see).

“Well, I found a bunch of weird murders that looks like some kind of demigod going for their usual meal of people _en flambé_ , but I don’t think you boys should go messin’ with that.”

“And why the hell not?” Dean demanded.

Bobby made a rude noise. “I dunno, genius, maybe because every time you two chuckleheads tangle with a god, you walk right in the middle of whatever their schtick is and come cryin’ to me to bail you out?”

“The hell we do!” Dean hollered, outraged. “Sam and I faced down a dozen of those fuckers at once without you, thank you very much.”

“Without me—and with an archangel covering your asses.”

“Yeah, well, he’s dead and I’m still here, so I think that makes it pretty clear who’s better at dealing with ‘em,” Dean retorted. “So where is this sucker—Sam and I will head out tomorrow.”

“Don’t worry, Bobby,” Sam tossed out. “I can handle it; it won’t be the first time I’ve had to pull his ass out of the fire when he gets on the wrong side of some god.” He smirked over his shoulder and was treated to Dean holding up one fist and miming blowing into his thumb as he raised his middle finger.

Bobby let out a large exhale. “Honestly, if I’m right about this god, you might be able to keep yourself from gettin’ trussed up like a turkey this time. I think this one might just be going for virgin sacrifices.”

“Well, then!” Dean said, delighted. “Looks like it’ll be my turn to bail Sammy out!”

Sam bit back the immediate response that sprang to mind ( _Just who is getting more pussy these days, Dean?_ ) and settled instead for giving Dean an incredulous look over his shoulder. Dean just beamed at him and took a swig of beer, leaning back against the wall on two legs of his chair.

“It’s down in the Four Corners area; looks like it might be some kind of Indian deity or something,” Bobby was saying, flipping through the open documents on the computer. “Not too densely populated down there, so whatever it is hasn’t nailed enough victims to make national news, but it was enough for me to spot it.”

“Sweet,” Dean said. “What do you say, Sammy? Hit the road, send this bastard up in smoke, and then on to Vegas.”

Sam grinned. “Why not? I know how much you love to lose at the craps tables.”

“And you like getting rejected by strippers,” came the easy rejoinder, but after that Dean just got this huge, shit-eating grin on his face. “Or who knows?” he said slyly. “Maybe one’ll have you and you can have another romantic Vegas wedding.”

“Blow it out your ass, Dean,” Sam said shortly, dropping the last folded shirt on top of the neatly stacked pile in the laundry basket even as Dean laughed in triumph. Cas had made short work of all the unmentionables and cut Sam’s own pile in half; once Sam put that last shirt in with the rest, Cas picked up the basket and started heading toward the stairs.

Only he had to pass by Dean on his way, and from where Sam had moved over to pick up the abandoned Coke he’d been drinking before he went down for the laundry, he now had a clear view of the two of them, and once again was treated to the sight of Cas getting this sickeningly adoring expression on his face when he looked down at Dean. And then Dean looked up and— _Oh my God._

Dean looked up, and he didn’t look away, like he usually did, didn’t pretend he didn’t see him. No, he looked back, looked right at him…and his laughing eyes went soft and warm, and for a split second, Sam saw the faintest trace of a shy little smile.

Sam stared, barely keeping his jaw from flapping open. Cas hadn’t stopped, had just gone floating up the stairs with the laundry, and Dean took a drink of beer before dropping his chair back down on all fours so he could lean over Bobby’s shoulder and look at whatever he had on the computer. He wasn’t blushing, he wasn’t looking pissed, and it was like nothing had happened.

Except it _had_. Didn’t matter that it had only been for a split second, or that if he hadn’t been looking right at him he wouldn’t have seen it. What mattered was that Dean, in front of God and everybody—and even more insane, in front of _Sam_ —had just _made eyes_ at Cas.

Sweet Jesus, _Dean just made eyes at Cas_. And Sam had had to watch it happen.

Dear God. What had Sam _done_? Yes, he’d once wished his idiot brother would be a little more open about things, but he certainly didn’t mean _that_ kind of open. It was bad enough that Cas did it all the time after they had a date. If he knew that was going to happen, he’d have _never_ sent them off for their little love-fest. What had he been thinking? That was _nauseating_. Disgusted, he grabbed his coke and made his way to the kitchen, because there was pretty much no way he could go over news articles with Bobby now, not with Dean sitting there—Dean, who had just made _goo-goo eyes_ at his boyfriend in front of everyone.

 _But you know_ , Sam thought with a smile tipping back the last of his soda before crumpling the can and tossing in the trash, _I really wouldn’t have it any other way._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so the story closes. As we’d originally said, Dean is still going to identify as straight, he’s not going to leap out of the closet, he’s going to continue to be private about his relationship with Cas—but he’s come to terms with it and will no longer obsess over it. He’s overcome his own internalized homophobia so that he’s no longer going to be in a state of constantly freaking out over his relationship, and isn’t quite so on his guard about “being gay.” He won’t ever manage to be open about it—it just doesn’t fit with our interpretation of his character—but at least we got him to accept it.
> 
> First and foremost, we would like to extend our gratitude and thanks to our editor/beta extraordinaire [Gehayi](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gehayi/pseuds/Gehayi), as well as our cold-readers Kermit_thefrog and sossporkers on LJ. Their commentary, criticisms, questions, and suggestions were immense help in cleaning up and refining our fics to make them the best we could.
> 
> We also owe our appreciation to the creators, writers, and actors of “Supernatural.” Without their creative input, we wouldn’t have this lovely little sandbox to play in. Also, we want to acknowledge the artists who provided additional inspiration through their music; we tried to stick to SPN style in that our fic and chapter titles come from classic rock song titles. We’ve provided a complete [soundtrack for the story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/956334/chapters/2104809) in our aside collection “Good Times, Bad Times.”
> 
> And, of course, a huge thank you goes to everyone who read, kudo’d, and/or reviewed—we can’t tell you how much we enjoyed hearing from you, both your compliments and criticisms. We know this fic has been long and sometimes frustrating, and we appreciate you taking the time to read along with us and our admittedly atypical version of the Dean/Castiel relationship. If you got as much enjoyment out of reading as we did in the writing, then we consider this fic a success.
> 
> Lastly, we enjoyed writing this series so much that we continued on with several post-script fics—comedic asides, little bumps and hitches in their relationship, Sam getting a girlfriend, Bobby being awesome, a bit more perspective on Cas’s side of the relationship…and, of course, a boatload of porn. We’ve had some feedback/interest from some of our readers about continuing the series, so if there is anyone else who is interested, let us know. There would be some time between posting, but we’re looking to scrub up our additional fics and post them here if people would like to read our continuing adventures of Dean and Cas.
> 
> Again, thank you so much to all of our readers, and we’re so happy that you enjoyed the ride!
> 
>  
> 
>   
> **Mervin and Hyde**  
> 


End file.
